


The Duke

by tprillahfiction



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Aristocrat!Spock, Comedy, Domestic, Domestic Servants, English Aristocracy, English Regency Period, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sex, Farce, Humor, M/M, Master/Servant, References to Downton Abbey, References to Jane Austen, Regency, Regency Romance, Romance, Shoreleave adventure, Slow Build, shoreleave, shoreleave pretend, slow build romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/pseuds/tprillahfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Enterprise crew is invited to spend shore leave on pleasure planet Regus IV to play at being members of the aristocracy or as servants in the Earth Old English Regency period.   McCoy becomes Spock's butler.  </p><p>Not an AU.  Written for: Peerie.<br/>Originally appeared in Spiced Peaches e-zine.<br/>Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

 

The disabled, war weary Klingon ship crept away from the Enterprise in defeat.

Captain Kirk sat back in the captain’s chair, watching the enemy vessel on the viewscreen. “That’s a relief. Lieutenant Uhura, secure from general quarters.”

Dr. McCoy patted the man’s shoulder. “I knew you could do it, Jim.” He glanced over at the science station. “Didn’t I tell him, Mr. Spock?”

The first officer was bent over his station, peering through his viewer, the blue light illuminating his saturnine features. “Doctor, I seem to recall you complained the entire battle and predicted our untimely demise several times.”

McCoy glared at the Vulcan’s backside. “When, Mr. Spock? When, have I ever lost confidence in our illustrious captain? Now, as for you, I can safely proclaim that I’ve never had any confidence in your abilities.”

That finally got the Vulcan to stand up and turn around. “Indeed, Doctor? None at all?”

McCoy folded his arms in mock defiance. “Nope.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Kirk said. “Let’s not start another war.”

Spock stepped down to stand next to McCoy at the captain’s chair.

At the same time, McCoy glanced at his own left hand. He held it up to investigate. “Hmph. Look at that. I sustained an injury in the battle.”

“Are you alright, Bones?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Jim. Just a scratch.”

“Hmm.” Spock suddenly took hold of McCoy’s hand and had a look for himself. “Perhaps you should have your injury examined by a doctor.”

McCoy yanked his hand out of the Vulcan’s clutches. “Dammit!”

Kirk broke out in hysterical laughter. Spock raised an eyebrow and went back to his station.

McCoy scowled. “That’s not very goddamned funny. That pointy eared, green blooded, pain in the ass--”

“Bones, you two keep up that kind of banter, I’m gonna think you’re secretly married.”

“Not a chance in hell, Jim. Besides, we--”

“Captain!” Uhura’s voice rang out. “An official from the planet below is hailing us.”

“On speaker, Lieutenant.”

 

**REGUS IV**

 

Kirk, Spock and McCoy materialized in the middle of what appeared to be a busy, dirty and dusty metropolitan town. Row upon rows of shops selling their wares along narrow cobblestone streets. Gas lamps lining the road.

Men strolled by, clad in top hats, tail coats, knee breeches, buckle shoes. One doffed his hat as he passed. “Pleasant day, Sirs.”

A woman carrying a pink parasol, clad in a long linen gown, short puffy sleeves, waistline right underneath the breast, a bonnet on her head, winked at Spock as she strolled by.

“Must be those ears,” McCoy said.

“Perhaps.”

Once again it was apparent that the landing party was severely out of place in their Starfleet uniforms.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmured as a horse drawn carriage went past.

They stared every which way around them as they tried to avoid being run over by yet another fast moving coach or kicked by a horse or stepping in dung.

“This place,” Kirk said as they darted to and fro, “is right out of an old Earth history book.”

“If we move to the sidewalk, we should be relatively safe from vehicular traffic,” Spock suggested. Kirk nodded agreement and moved the party.

“Look at the paving stones, Jim,” McCoy said, pointing to the sidewalk. “Those are real. Quarry mined.”

“Yes,” Jim replied. “Don’t trip. They’re uneven.”

“It looks to be circa 1810-1815, old English Earth calendar, most definitely, Jim,” McCoy told him.

“Interesting,” Spock said.

“What is?” McCoy asked him.

“I had not thought of you as a historian, Doctor.”

“I’ll have you know that I have several interests and abilities besides medicine.”

“Indeed? Such as?”

“Gentlemen,” Kirk warned. “Not now.”

“Captain,” Spock said. “I find this planet quite illogical.”

“You too, Mr. Spock?”

“Why’s that?” McCoy asked the both of them.

“The planetary head in the transmission--” Spock began

“Oh yes, The ‘Prince Regent of the Planet Regus IV’,” Kirk said.

“Indeed. The Prince Regent of this planet was well aware of who we truly are. He referred to the Federation, the Enterprise, our mode of transport, starships, he invited us to ‘beam down’ to their ‘humble planet’. However, the Prince Regent’s personal knowledge of modern day technology does not match up with this rather primitive appearance on the richter scale.”

“Someone has interfered in this planet’s development,” Kirk replied. “Violated the prime directive. Since no one in the Federation has ever visited Regus IV, we can well assume--”

“Klingons, Jim?” McCoy asked.

“Has to be,” Jim replied as they walked further along, turning the corner. “Let’s hope the contamination has gone only so far.”

A man squinted at them, then appeared to recognize them. “Aha!” The man hurried over. “Gentlemen! Welcome!” The man was clad in a black tail coat, long pants, buckled shoes. “There you are, my good men. Forgive me for being so dreadfully late. Captain Kirk and company I presume?”

“You presume correctly. This is my first officer, Mr. Spock and my chief medical officer, Dr. McCoy.”

“Ah. How do you do?”

“I assume you are the Prince Regent of Regus IV?”

“Oh, dear me, Captain, no, sir. I am the Regent’s steward, Ebbins. I have been sent to meet you. However, I must beg forgiveness for my delay. I was not entirely certain of your precise beam down point.” The man chuckled and added, “I would have liked to have seen you materialize out of thin air. I bet that is quite a show!”

“It’s uh.” Kirk gave a small shrug. “Nothing much.”

“Oh, I bet it’s rather exciting, Sir. Rather exciting indeed. Scrambling molecules and such!”

Spock raised an eyebrow at that. McCoy smirked.

“Something like that,” Kirk replied.

The man gave them all the once over and did not seem at all phased by Spock’s pointy ears. “I bet you are dreadfully cold, Sir. It gets so very drafty here. Vulcan, Sir?” the man asked Spock.

“Affirmative.”

“Oh yes, the Vulcans prefer the temperature much warmer, do they not, Sir?”

“Indeed. However I--”

The first officer broke off as Ebbins reached out and fingered his tunic. “It is rather a thin fabric,” the steward said with a tut. “In this ghastly weather, indeed. Well, I don’t envy your lot. You shall catch cold. Well.” Ebbins chuckled again, “I suppose your fancy fabrics aboard the Enterprise are quite advanced and warm enough and you have no such need for coats and hats.” Ebbins released Spock. “Forgive my handling of you, Sir. How rude of me. Come, Gentlemen.”

Ebbins led the way, they fell in step behind him.

“Gotta be those ears,” McCoy whispered to Jim.

“Bones,” Jim hissed.

They approached a black carriage, bearing a royal standard on the side, pulled by a team of white horses. Another servant, dressed in red lively, wearing a long white powdered wig, opened the door and stood at attention.

Ebbins waved them inside. “Right this way, Gentlemen.”

Kirk, Spock then McCoy entered the carriage and sat down. The man joined them on the opposite facing bench. The door slammed shut and they were off.

“Comfortable?” Ebbins asked.

It wasn’t really. The seat felt hard as a rock. McCoy shifted. He could feel every bump. Spock sat ramrod straight, in that way he did when the first officer found the seat awkward.

Kirk gave a small, polite smile. “It’s fine, thank you.”

“No cushions, I’m afraid, Captain. Cushions are for the ladies. However, it’s not far.”

“Where are we going?” Kirk asked.

“Buckingham House, of course. On the Mall.”

“Ah,” Kirk replied. “Of course.”

“Ever ridden in a horse drawn carriage, Gentlemen? I must say it’s a quite a few steps down from your fancy, warp powered starship, is it not? All those new fandangled computers and such like.”

“No,” Kirk replied. “I can’t say that I have ever ridden in a horse drawn carriage.” It hit a hard bump and they all jolted forward. McCoy grunted at the shock.

“I’ve ridden in one of these, before,” McCoy said. “Back home. Though that one, I recall, had much better suspension.”

“These blasted wonky streets,” Ebbins muttered. He yelled out: “Coachman! Do try to be careful! We have guests!”

“Mr. Ebbins,” McCoy said. “I--”

“Just ‘Ebbins’, Sir,” the steward corrected.

“This place,” McCoy continued, “y’know, it looks a lot like images I’ve seen of old London in England on Earth. It’s remarkable. Almost identical.”

“Looks like?” Ebbins cocked his head. “My word, Sir. It IS London. The year is eighteen hundred and twenty."

*

At Buckingham House, Ebbins ushered Kirk, Spock and McCoy through a long elaborate hallway, filled with lush fabrics, gilt edges and hundreds of paintings hanging on the walls. The hallway was also filled with plaster or perhaps porcelain sculptures of various naked men. “Bones,” Kirk whispered. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? Do they have--?”

“Erections, Jim? Yep,” McCoy whispered back. “They sure do.”

“Fascinating.” Spock picked up a small painted statue of a naked man, the large erect organ pointing right at him.

McCoy elbowed the first officer. “Bet you don’t have those on Vulcan, do ya.”

Ebbins reached over and delicately took the statue out of Spock’s clutches. He set it down on its pedestal. “Onward, if you don’t mind, Gentlemen.”

They moved into yet another hallway lined with more large oil paintings of what appeared to be royalty. The people depicted wearing sashes, crowns or tiaras and badges.

Kirk came to a dead stop, the two footmen trailing their party nearly running into him. “Nice painting.”

“Ah, that is George III,” Ebbins told him.

“The man we’re meeting with?”

“No Sir, that is his father. The sovereign. You are meeting with the Prince Regent.”

“I see.”

“Right this way, Gentlemen.”

 

**THE REGENT**

 

“How do you do, Captain, Gentlemen?” A small, dark haired man sat before them in a purple and gilt chair, wearing what looked to be an old fashioned English or French military uniform with huge epaulettes on the shoulders. “I am George, Prince Regent of this humble planet: Regus IV. Did you beam down just fine? I dare say you did. All intact, I see, everything there? Including the genitalia? Oh dear, what would would you do if that ever happened? Say... one day you accidentally beamed down sans balls?”

“Sans...what?” Kirk asked.

“However, I may safely assume by your ample bulges in the right place that you are all in one piece!” the prince regent added.

McCoy raised an eyebrow, glanced down at himself, looked back up.

“Splendid!” the regent said. “Well, as you can see, I don’t trust those blasted transporters much, myself.”

McCoy glanced over at the captain, who was standing there openmouthed. Spock’s head was tilted.

“Scattering one’s atoms doesn’t seem like a very nice way to travel, not very nice at all. No, indeed. Anyway, you must be very cold, freezing on our humble planet. Those uniforms don’t look very warm. Not very warm at all. My man shall build up the fire.” The regent clapped his hands. “Ebbins!” The steward immediately went to the fireplace and threw on another log. “Ebbins! Did you not supply them with blankets and coats for the journey? Ebbin’s give the Vulcan a blanket! He must be so very cold!”

Spock shook his head. “Thank you, but I do not require a blanket. I am quite--”

The regent clapped. “Gentlemen! Please come and stand by the fire! Please be our guests, warm yourself, Captain Kirk and your shipmates... uh...whatever your names might be.”

“We’re fine, Your Highness. Thank you,” Kirk said, managing to get a word in.

“Your Grace, is fine.”

“I see,” Kirk said. “Thank you, Your Grace. Allow me to introduce my first officer, Mr. Spock and my chief medical officer, Dr. McCoy.”

“Oh! How do you do!” the regent replied. “Oh dear, both of you, very attractive. And you captain, you are also, very attractive. I suppose they don’t let any ugly folks on board your ship, do they?”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. Anyway, I--”

“Well then, this is a celebration of your safe arrival. Come you must be hungry!” The regent clapped his hands again. Several servants appeared bearing silver trays. “Come, eat! Here’s some ham and several types of cheese and some fruit and some cake. Mmmm cake! And some brandy and some wine. Mmmm. I love wine.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Kirk said.

The regent looked at Spock, studying him for long moments. “Ah. You don’t eat ham do you, Mr. Spock. Oh of course you don’t, Where are my manners? You’re one of those vegetarians. Well, you can drink tea, can’t you? You can have a spot of milky in your tea, can’t you? Or should we hold the milk?”

A servant appeared at Spock’s elbow with a silver tray bearing a delicate teacup and saucer.

Spock picked up the tea cup. “I do not mind milk in my tea. Thank you.”

“Give this man a piece of cake!” the regent said. “Vulcans can have cake can’t they?”

Spock tried to answer. He was interrupted by a servant arriving with a piece of cake on a very delicate, fussy, gold rimmed plate that matched the tea cup and saucer.

“Of course you can, you can have cake,” the regent said. “No meat in cake. Let him eat cake!” The regent and his servants chuckled at that.

Spock raised an eyebrow, then blinked at the tea and cake.

“I’m sure the cake’s safe to eat, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said.

“Wait!” the prince said. Spock looked up. “Hold on! There is not only cow’s milk in cake, but chicken eggs. Two eggs in the ingredients. Do you eat chicken eggs, Mr. Spock?”

“I--” Spock began.

“Of course you can eat chicken eggs,” the regent replied. “Vulcans are not vegans are they? Are they Ebbins?”

“They are not vegans, Your Grace. They are vegetarians.”

“So the cake is safe for you to consume, Mr. Spock,” the regent said. “Goody!”

“Spock, go ahead, you’re alright. If you get sick, I’ll take care of ya,” McCoy whispered.

Spock took a bite of the cake, though it seemed he was reluctant.

“What do you think of the cake, Mr. Spock? Good?” the regent asked.

“Good,” Spock replied.

“Yay!” the regent replied. “Mr. Spock likes the cake, everybody!” The regent and the servants applauded. Kirk, Spock and McCoy stared, bewildered at the regent’s glee.

“So...you are a doctor, eh?” the regent asked McCoy.

“Uh, yes. That’s correct.”

“I bet your sickbay looks positively smashing! All that equipment, lasers and scanners and fancy drugs and that sort of thing.”

“It’s uh...very...uh....” McCoy said with a shrug, wondering how much he should divulge to the man.

“Well, I dare say it’s a sight better than blood letting!” the regent said. He and the servants broke out in guffaws.

“Blood letting?” McCoy said, aghast.

“Leeches, my good man. Get rid of the ill humors. It’s all we have in 1820.”

McCoy choked on his tea. “Oh. Right.”

“You’re going to make my doctor pass out,” Kirk said. “It’s alright, Bones.”

McCoy shook his head, had another sip of tea. He noticed Spock had devoured his slice of cake. “Did you skip breakfast?”

“Negative, Doctor.”

“Are you perhaps wondering why I invited you down here, Captain, Mr. Spock? Dr. McCartney?”

“Uh...it’s McCoy,” McCoy said.

“We were wondering, Your Grace,” Kirk said.

“Well, Captain, I thought it proper that I thank you in person for saving our humble planet from the Klingons. We’ve been monitoring your ship on the planetary scanners.”

“Planetary scanners?”

“Oh yes, of course. Saw the entire battle. Very entertaining. The Klingon Bird of Prey went away with it’s little tail between its legs. Those losers. Quite a fantastic sight. Capital! Capital, I must say. Captain Kirk, you are a very brave man. A brave man indeed. A most fantastic starship captain. Isn’t he, Ebbins?”

“Oh, Quite!”

“Why, thank you,” Kirk replied, sipping on his tea. “Good tea.”

“Of course it is! Only the best for you my good man. How do you like your tea, Dr. McGovern?”

“It’s ‘McCoy’. Thank you, it’s just fine, Your Grace.”

“More than fine. It’s capital!”

“Yes, I agree,” McCoy said, politely. “Capital.”

Kirk cleared his throat. “So you... watched the entire battle on your...scanner?”

“Oh yes,” the regent said. “Would you like to see our equipment?”

“Certainly.”

 

**FUN**

 

The regent and his steward escorted them to an adjacent chamber. Ebbins walked over to a wooden cabinet and opened it, revealing a most contemporary device, the afore mentioned planetary scanner.

The regent plopped down into another elaborate gilt and purple velvet chair. “Come captain! Mr. Spock! Dr. McKinley!”

“Uh, that’s McCoy.”

“You what?” the regent said.

“Never mind.”

“Mind you, we don’t use this thing very often,” the regent told them. “Only on special occasions, when it alerts us to orbiting ships.” The scanner looked distinctively out of place in the wooden cabinet, surrounded by fussy early 19th century furnishings. The regent hovered his hand over the controls. It shifted between various views: A star field, then a view of the planetary horizon. “See? What do you think, Captain? Neat, eh?”

“Who supplied this to you?” Kirk asked.

“It’s mine.” The regent seemed to be rather taken aback. “I know what you three are thinking: ‘Did the Klingons give you this?’ Absolutely not. Why the devil would we want one of those bastards’ scanners for? No, no, no. I brought this with me.”

“The scanner is not of Klingon origin,” Spock said.

“That’s because it is from Earth!” the regent insisted. “You see, here on Regus IV, even though we are technically classed as a pleasure planet, we do need to protect ourselves. We have some effective planetary defenses, several laser beams at the ready, if it comes to that. However, we prefer to sit back and watch your Federation starships protect us occasionally. Makes for great theatre, doesn’t it, Ebbins?”

“Indeed it does, Your Grace.”

“You see?”

Kirk nodded and said: “Your Grace, allow me to extend an official invitation to your planet to join the federation. And consequently we would continue our protection. We also would not interfere in your planetary development.”

“I’d have to put it up to a council vote. Certainly, if it was all up to me, I would join you in a heartbeat. How about we discuss those particulars later, Captain. You know, we’re sitting on a sizable amount of tri-lithium, deep inside the planet’s mines.”

“I see why the Klingons were so interested in this place.”

“Well, you didn’t think they were interested in us otherwise? We put on quite a primitive facade here.”

“Ah,” Kirk said. “I see. This is all a facade. I’ve seen something like this before.”

“Of course it is a facade. We’re not really--” the regent leaned in closer to deliver a stage whisper: “Captain, we’re not really in 1820’s London, England, you know.”

“Are the entire planet’s inhabitants aware of that or just you?”

“Everybody! They come here willingly. We’re all actors, you see.”

“Actors?”

“Yes!” the regent nodded emphatically. “You know! Performers! In the business! The theatre! We play at this sort of thing. Hence the ‘pleasure planet’ status. It’s all pretend, my good man! The Old English Regency period. I went to RADA, you know!”

“RADA?” Kirk asked.

“The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art,” Spock supplied. “Located in London, England, Earth--”

“--the milky way galaxy, the universe,” the regent finished for him. “Yes. Indeed. RADA is the only drama school that exists.”

“Incorrect,” Spock said. “There are many notable drama schools located on Earth, still in operation.”

“No, no, no, my dear, Mr. Spock. The only drama school worth attending is RADA,” the prince insisted.

“There are several drama schools,” Spock countered, “worth attending in England. Such as Central School of Speech and Drama and Rose Bruford College of Theatre and Performance. In addition, there are several notable drama schools in the former United States. Such as the Juilliard School of Drama in New York and Carnegie Mellon in--”

The prince regent turned bright red. “Central? Rose Bruford? Juilliard? Carnegie Mellon?! How dare you speak these things in my presence? HOW DARE YOU?!”

“Spock,” McCoy hissed under his breath to get the first officer to back off. “Spock.”

The regent pointed at Spock. “Seize him!” Two burly servants came up and told hold of the Vulcan’s arms.

Kirk’s hand moved to his phaser.

Spock stopped and said: “Perhaps I was mistaken, Your Grace. The only drama school I have heard of is RADA.”

The regent finally relaxed and chuckled. “I was just kidding anyway. You’re not really under arrest.” The servants released Spock. Kirk’s hand moved away from his phaser. “You know what, Mr. Spock? I like you. You have spunk. You have cajones. You have balls. You don’t take crap from anybody, do you.”

“You missed your calling as an ambassador,” McCoy whispered to the Vulcan. “Way to flip flop.”

“So you’re from...?” Kirk motioned to the regent.

“Earth! London, England. I thought that was quite obvious, Captain.”

“So let me get this straight, Your Grace. You and your people come to here to play?”

“Yes, Captain. Oh dear... how exasperating for me to repeat myself, explaining this to you over and over. Many of us came to this colony planet to get away from Earth and its rules. Enjoy a simpler time.”

“You didn’t go through federation channels to found a colony planet.”

“No, Captain, I did not. But...that’s allowed. It’s not a crime. Nobody wanted this one. I took the planet nobody wanted, until the klingons found out we have several tri-lithium mines.”

“True, it is not illegal to colonize a planet independently. It’s not very wise, but it is, as you said, allowed.”

“And, Captain, I mean this most sincerely, I like you. You invited us to join the federation and I am most keen. However, the council might be anti-federation, I don’t know. Even with the offer of continued protection.” The regent shrugged. “You see, my dear Captain, I’m only playing at being Regent of this planet. This fantasy playground colony was my idea. Wasn’t it, Ebbins?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“I’m Regent and my poor, poor, father, George III, is the sovereign. I’m ruling Regus IV in his place.”

“Your father is ill, Your Grace?” McCoy asked.

“Oh yes. He’s ill and he’s insane. Absolutely bonkers. He’s got porpheria. Poor dear. Dreadful disease.”

“Porpheria? Where is your father?” McCoy rested his hand on his medikit. “I have a cure for that.”

The regent and the steward broke out into laughter.

McCoy felt anger welling up in him as he glanced from the regent to the steward and back. “Now, wait just a moment, I don’ t find illness very funny. I’m a doctor--”

“My good man, Dr. McGovern--”

“It’s McCoy. Dr. McCoy.”

“Tell him, Ebbins.” The regent flicked his hand.

“Doctor, I must inform you: The sovereign, George III, does not really exist.”

“What?”

The regent let out a long sigh. “My father George III is not really here on Regus IV and he’s not ill, not really, and most importantly, he’s not really the sovereign. And also, his name is not George. It’s all just pretend!”

“Pretend,” McCoy said, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, indeed!”

McCoy shifted his feet. “Let me be the judge of that. Let me see your father, I want to make sure he’s alright.”

“You may see him but you’ll have a long way to travel in your starship. My father is back on Earth!”

“On Earth?”

“Yes, I believe I just said that! And, I assure you my father is quite well, thank you.”

“Oh.” McCoy scowled. “Well, good.”

“I thought you would be pleased at that, Dr. McFlower.”

“It’s McCoy, Your Grace. Perhaps I should examine you instead, to make certain you’re in possession of all your mental faculties.”

The regent laughed. “You may check me over, my good man. And perhaps that might be a great idea for all of us, as doctors are few and far between on our planet, but I assure you, I am mentally well.”

The regent waved at the steward. Ebbins turned off the planetary scanner and closed the cabinet.

“How did you get to this planet, Your Grace?” Kirk asked. “What type of transport?”

“Freighter.”

“Freighter?”

“Oh, yes. Many of us arrived that way. Some of us came in on chartered passenger spaceships but I was trying to save a few bob.”

“The inhabitants can leave any time they want to?”

“Of course! They’re not chained here! When they get fed up with playing they are welcome to leave any time they want to. We rarely have anyone leave, however. Nearly everyone enjoys this immensely.”

“What’s the current population?”

“Several thousand. If you want exact figures, Ebbins can supply you with them. Anyone may apply but there is a rigorous application process similar to what RADA has. There’s an audition. A panel takes care of the selection. You know, they need to make certain the applicant won’t be disruptive, ill, make sure they’re not Klingon!” The regent and the steward broke out in more laughter.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” Kirk said.

“You could do the same.”

“Do what?” Kirk asked.

“Play. Here.”

“I’m afraid, we don’t have the time. The most we could spare was a few days.”

“A few days would be fine though I recommend a bit longer. I’ll wave the audition, just for you lot. You can stay with us as little or as long as you like.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Nothing. Just...have fun.”

“What do we do? Dress in costume?” Kirk said.

“Yes. First you are cast in the part you will play, then you will receive intense instruction on how to play it well. You will improvise your interactions with others, having a hand in creating a Regency era character. You will attend parties, dance at balls, attend the theatre or opera, have stately homes in London and the country, interact with servants, townspeople, whoever. Experience 1820’s English life. Immerse yourselves. You should try it, Captain. Think it of it as a bonding exercise with your crew. A relaxing shore leave where you can leave your troubles behind and have an old fashioned adventure. Haven’t you ever done a murder mystery weekend? It’s a bit like that, but without the murdering.”

“No, I’ve never done anything like that. How long will it take your council to come to a vote?”

“It will take a fortnight for them to decide,” the regent said.

“That’s...two weeks.”

“Indeed. Well, what do you say? In fact, your entire ship is invited. As many as wish to join in. Then afterwards you will turn in your costumes and go on your merry way. Perhaps we can learn something about each other. Remember, it is a game. A fun game.”

Kirk wrinkled up his face. “Let me discuss it with my officers.”

“By all means! Please!”

Kirk pulled Spock and McCoy over to the corner. “Well? What do you think?”

Spock remained very quiet, but McCoy said: “Two weeks shore leave, down here? Might be fun.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah, why not? Can we spare two weeks?”

“Yes, we can. We need a break, don’t we.”

“Well, the crew would certainly appreciate it. We could use a rest, Jim. In fact, I prescribe it.”

Kirk nodded, flipped open his communicator. “Kirk to Enterprise.”

“Scott here.”

“Mr. Scott, prepare for an interesting two week shore leave.”

“Uh...does that include me, Captain?”

“You, especially, Mr. Scott.”

Kirk went on to fill the chief engineer in on the details of the shore leave.

_______________________  
on to the next chapter


	2. The Casting Session

**THE CASTING SESSION**

 

Several Enterprise crew personnel, the ones who’d decided to participate, now gathered in the main drawing room of Buckingham House.

After a brief welcoming reception, with lots of food and drink, Ebbins held up a black top hat filled with slips of real paper. It was time to get started with choosing the roles they would play.

The regent waved his hand towards it. “Who is going first amongst all of you assembled here? One of the ladies?” He motioned at Nurse Chapel.

Kirk cleared his throat. “Uh...as captain, I feel I should start things off.”

The regent rolled his eyes. “Of course, Love. Pick a slip of paper, then and that will bestow upon you your role in this game!”

Kirk dipped his hand into the hat and drew out a slip of paper. “‘Viscount Severin’,” he read aloud.

The regent and the servants broke out in applause. “Splendid!” the regent cried out. “Absolutely splendid!”

“So...uh...what does that mean? I play the part of a viscount? I’m an aristocrat?”

“That’s exactly what it means, Captain! Or rather, I mean, ‘Lord James, Viscount Severin’! You are now a nobleman. At least you are for a fortnight. You’ll get a house, a few servants to attend you and you’ll make an appearance at a few balls, party, you know, as I said before, have fun!”

“Hey!” Kirk smiled wide. “That does sound like fun! I’m a viscount, everybody!”

“Yes, Dear, you’re a viscount,” the prince replied. “Everyone below the rank of Viscount, please bow to the man!” All the servants did as ordered. The Enterprise crew just stood there looking more bewildered than ever. “You’re much too serious, Lord James, Viscount Severin! Relax! Enjoy yourself. This is supposed to be fun! And... we’ll get you a costume change...later!” The prince clapped his hands. “Next person!”

Everyone hesitated.

“Oh, come on, then! One of you pick something, for crying out loud!”

“Are we doing this according to rank?” McCoy wondered. “If that’s the case, Spock should go next.”

Spock shook his head. “I will refrain, thank you, Doctor.”

“Come on, Spock. Maybe you’ll get the part of a Covent Garden prostitute. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Please, Doctor,” Spock hissed back.

“Gentlemen,” Kirk warned.

“For the love of George III, somebody have a bloody turn!” the regent bellowed out. “You’re slowing things down! Ugh! I need a glass of wine.” The prince regent collapsed into his chair. A servant promptly brought the wine in a crystal goblet to him on a silver platter. The regent took a long sip. “Ugh.” He waved at them impatiently. “Continue! Please!”

“We’ll skip Mr. Spock for now,” Kirk said. “Scotty! You’re next.”

“Uh...aye.” Scotty looked terrified as he drew out a slip of paper from the hat. He read it aloud: “’The Earl of Perth’.”

“Ooooh!” the regent said, jumping up and applauding. “Nice!”

“I’m a Scottish aristocrat!” Scotty said. He broke out into a grin.

“Yes, I noticed your accent. Edinburgh, right?” the regent replied. “This will fit you to a tee! What’s your first name?”

“Montgomery.”

“Congratulations to Montgomery!” The regent and the servants applauded again. “Everybody below the rank of Earl, please bow to ‘Montgomery, the Earl of Perth’ That includes you: James, Viscount Severin. So, Montgomery, Do you like to be called ‘Monty’ my dear?”

“Uh...no. I prefer ‘Scotty’.”

“Ah well...cute nickname, anyway. ‘The Earl of Perth’ everybody!” There was another round of applause from the servants.

“Wait a moment,” Kirk broke in. “‘Earl’ is a higher rank than ‘Viscount’.”

“Indeed it is, Lord James! Who’s up next?”

“Shouldn’t I be a...uh.....” Kirk tilted his head. “Shouldn’t I be...something higher than a mere viscount?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Lord James!” the regent replied. “There are over a hundred slips of paper, some nobility, some gentry, some servants, maybe a shopkeeper, policeman or lady, various roles in our little theatre.” He waved at the hat. “Lots of choices. Won’t be too many Earls. Will be quite balanced, I should say so.”

“Alright, if you insist,” Kirk said.

“Who’s next?” the regent asked.

“Bones! Get over there.”

“Yes, Captain.” McCoy went over to the hat and drew out a slip of paper. “‘A butler’.” He arched an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, I’m a butler?!”

“Ah hah!” the regent bellowed out. “Excellent! You’ll be the head servant, employed in the household of one of your fellow crew persons who choose nobility or gentry! Your choice who’s household you wish to serve in. You’ll chose later whom you want as your master or mistress. You’ll be waiting on every whim of theirs and such like. No bows for you! But congrats all the same!” The regent and the servants gave McCoy a small golf clap.

McCoy scowled. He had been looking forward to being part of the aristocracy. Damn. He slunked back to his place, in between Jim and Spock.

Jim patted his back. “Tough break, Bones.”

“Yeah,” McCoy said.

“Next person up!” the prince regent yelled out.

Next was Mr. Sulu, who became the Earl of Liverpool. “Cool,” was all he said about the matter.

Then it was Mr. Chekov’s turn, who also became a butler. “I vas hoping to be the Tsar,” he said with a pout.

“What about one of the ladies?” the regent asked. “Pleeeease, let it be their turn. In fact, since I’m Regent, I proclaim it to be one of the ladies’ turn! I dearly wish one of you lovely ladies could be my bride, though unfortunately you cannot, being as I’m already, quite...married to that...woman: Carolyn, the Countess of Rathburn,” he spat out with rancor as he pointed to her painting on the far wall. “Ugh. Where are my darts? Bring me my Royal darts!”

Ebbins presented the regent with a gold plated dart. “Here you are, Your Grace.”

The regent aimed then threw the dart. It hit the painting, landing right on the countess’ nose.

“Good shot, Your Grace!” Ebbins said.

“I know!”

There was an awkward silence.

The regent stamped his foot. “Come on, come on, you Enterprise lot! One of the ladies.”

“Fine. I’ll take a turn!” Nurse Chapel said, rushing over to the hat.

“Thank goodness! I dare say, I don’t want us all to be have to be standing here for the entire fortnight, figuring out all the parts. What’s your first name, dear?”

“Christine.” She drew out a slip of paper and read it aloud: “Viscountess Severin.” She thought a moment. “That means--”

“That means, my dear, Lady Christine, Viscountess Severin, you are ‘married’ to none other than Lord James, Viscount Severin,” the regent finished for her. “Of course, the marriage is in name only. You can take it as far as you want, but this is just pretend. Some people here do fall in love for real, some married couples hate each other. Just like real life.”

“I see,” Chapel said.

“You don’t like the part of the viscountess?”

Chapel shrugged.

“You wish for another choice?” the regent said.

“May I take another?”

“Of course, my dear Christine! You choose another and you can decide which part you want.”

“Wait a minute,” Kirk broke in. “I’d like to make another choice, too.”

“No no, my dear, Lord James, Viscount Severin, your turn is over. Madame? Another?” the regent waved at the hat. “Please choose a additional slip.”

Christine choose another. She read it aloud: “Scullery maid.”

Some of the servants snickered under their breaths.

“Enough!” the regent said. “That’s not very nice. Excuse my ill mannered staff,” he said to Chapel.

“What the devil is a scullery maid?” Chapel asked.

The regent shrugged. “Well...scullery maids....they wash things. You know. Laundry. Scrub stuff in the scullery, such as dishes, pots and pans, various things.”

Chapel wrinkled up her nose. “Laundry? Dishes?”

“Indeed.”

“So I would spend my entire two weeks--”

“As a scullery maid, as I said, washing clothing, linens and scrubbing pots and pans and dishware and cutlery using of course, 19th century tools. Utilizing the washing board, boiling water. Lots of soap. Does that sound like fun?”

“Not at all,” Chapel said.

“Well, you can chose which one you’d like to be: Scullery maid or the noblewoman: Lady Christine, Viscountess Severin.”

Chapel eyed the captain. “Do I have to sleep in the viscount’s bedroom with the viscount?”

“Not at all! You get your own bedroom, my dear. Like I said, the marriage is just pretend. Doesn’t have to be a ‘Love Connection’. You can dance with whomever you like.”

“Well, alright. I choose the viscountess part.”

“Splendid!”

“Just for the record,” Kirk said. “I don’t snore, Nurse Chapel.”

“The hell you don’t, Jim,” McCoy said.

“Viscountess Severin, it is! Everybody under the rank of Viscount, please bow to the new viscountess! That includes you, McCoy and Chekov the two butlers,” the regent said. McCoy rolled his eyes but bowed along with Chekov. “Lady Christine, please take your place next to your noble husband Lord James!” McCoy glanced over and noted silently that his head nurse didn’t seem at all thrilled to take her place next to the captain.

The regent clapped his hands. “Another lady? What about you, my dear?” He pointed at Lieutenant Uhura. “Please, my dear. What’s your first name?”

“Nyota,” Uhura went up to the hat and drew out a slip. She read it aloud. “The Countess of Wessex.”

The regent clapped. “Splendid, my dear Lady Nyota! Do you like that choice? You get a manor house, beautiful dresses, staff to take care of your every need, theatre, dancing at the ball with whomever you like.” The regent waggled his eyebrows. “Including a handsome prince regent, like myself.”

“Uh...sure!” Uhura said. “That sounds nice, I think.”

“Excellent! Everybody below the rank of Lady Nyota, Countess of Wessex, bow to the lady! That includes you both, Viscount and Viscountess Severin and you, McCoy and Chekov the two butlers. Next lovely lady please choose a part! What is your name, dear?”

“Janice.” Yeoman Rand went forward and drew out a slip of paper. “Kitchen maid.” She wrinkled up her face. “What do they do?”

“Ebbins!” The regent waved at the steward.

“Madame, the kitchen maid assists the cook in meal preparation.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t like that one, I see, my dear Janice,” the regent said. “Well, come on then, choose another.”

She did. “Scullery maid.” Rand stood there scowling with two slips of paper clutched in her hand. “Hey, that’s not fair.”

“No, my dear, it sure isn’t,” the regent said. “Well, which choice do you wish to make?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Rand replied. “I thought that since I wait on the captain aboard ship in real life, I might be able to play at being an aristocrat for my two weeks shore leave. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” the regent said. “No. No such luck. Sorry, dear.”

“May I make another choice?”

“I wish you could, my dear. You’d make a beautiful princess or countess or even a duchess, but one can only make two choices at the most. But you will look most lovely in a maid’s uniform.”

“Humph,” Rand said. “I don’t know which choice to make. It’s between a lowly servant and a lowly servant.”

“Well, if I was you, my dear, I’d choose the--” The regent stopped and thought a moment. “Ebbins? Which one?”

Ebbins spoke up to Rand: “If I was you, Madame, I would chose to be a kitchen maid rather than scullery maid. Scullery maid is much too much work indeed. Endless scrubbing. Not very nice on the hands or the manicure. At least the kitchen maid gets a break once in awhile.”

“Fine. I’ll be a kitchen maid,” Rand replied.

“Excellent! No bows for you, my dear, though you are lovely.”

“It’s alright, Yeoman,” Kirk said. “I won’t work you too hard.”

“Any more ladies?” the regent wondered. “No? That’s all who’s decided to join us? Only three lovely ladies?”

“That’s all the female crew members here at the moment,” Kirk confirmed.

They moved on to the remainder of the men: Mr. Hadley became the Earl of Snowdon. Mr. Kyle, became a coachman. Mr. Lemli became a footman and Mr. Leslie also became a footman.

“Do you like that choice, my dear?” the regent asked Mr. Leslie.

Mr. Leslie shrugged.

“Well, do you or don’t you?”

Mr. Leslie shrugged again.

“Fine. You, my dear, are a footman.”

“Well, that’s all of us,” Kirk said. “When do we get our manor houses?”

“Just a moment, just a moment,” the regent replied. “We must assign the servants to their houses.”

“Wait, Your Grace!” McCoy yelled out. “We forgot Mr. Spock! He hasn’t made a selection yet.”

“Why, thank you, Dr. McCoy,” Spock whispered.

McCoy smirked back. “Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.”

Spock cleared his throat. “I regret, Your Grace, that I will be unable to participate. I must return to the Enterprise. Vulcans do not require shore leave, furthermore--”

There was a chorus of “Awwwwww’s” from the assembled.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Spock, you have no pressing duties for two weeks,” Kirk said. “We’re all on leave. Even you. Join in the fun.”

Spock shook his head. “Captain, this does not look like fun. Furthermore, I do in fact have duties to perform.”

“Viscount!” the regent corrected. “Your captain is to be properly addressed as: Lord James.”

Spock looked over towards the regent who was downing yet another glass of wine, then back to Kirk and said quietly: “Captain, if you will excuse me, I shall return to the ship.”

“Don’t make me make this an order, Mr. Spock.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You cannot.”

“Try me. Think of it as a extra-curricular activity. As His Grace said before: A bonding exercise. Get to know your fellow crew.”

Spock flicked a glance back at McCoy. “I already know my fellow crew. Too well.”

“Come on, Spock,” McCoy whispered. “You might find it fascinating.”

“Negative.”

McCoy summoned up his best pleading, hang dog expression. “Please?”

Spock shook his head.

“You know, uh, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said, “early 18th old English Earth culture adapted to a foreign planet, might be something worth observing. As a scientist, I wouldn’t want to pass that up. Just think, you could write a paper on the subject. In fact, I’d be willing to co-author it with you. You know...if you wanted.”

Spock narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he said: “Perhaps... I could...participate for a limited number of days. Not the entire two weeks.”

“Go on, Spock. Do it, the whole two weeks. All or nothing,” Kirk said, nudging the Vulcan. “Pick a slip of paper. Come on, live a little.”

Spock gave out a huge put upon sigh then strode up to the outstretched hat, near the beaming regent who was grinning like a madman and clapping his hands silently in anticipation. Spock dug his hand into the hat, pulled out a slip of paper. He held on to it, hesitating.

“Well?” the regent demanded. “What does it say?”

If McCoy hadn’t known Spock any better, he could have sworn the first officer had rolled his eyes.

“The Duke of Cambridge,” Spock read aloud.

The regent and the servants all sucked in their collective breath.

There was a mutter between the Enterprise crew as well. “Duke, that’s...uh...a higher rank than a viscount too, isn’t it,” Kirk mused. “A lot higher.”

“Sure is, Jim,” McCoy replied. “Ooh.”

The regent jumped up and down, a ball of excitement. “Oh goody, goody! Splendid! Capital! Way to hit the aristocratic jackpot, Lord Spock!”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“You do fancy this choice, do you not?” the regent asked.

Spock gave a one shouldered shrug suggesting he did not care one jot. “Affirmative.”

“You are the highest ranking nobleman in the realm! Besides me, of course. You are third in line to the throne after me and my father George III, the sovereign, God bless him, poor dying fellow, doesn’t have long to live.”

“Wait, I thought you said--?!” McCoy began.

The regent held up a hand. “Shhhhh! Everyone below the rank of Lord Spock, Duke of Cambridge, bow to the new nobleman. I present to you: Lord Spock, The Most Noble Duke of Cambridge.” Everybody in the room, besides the prince regent, bowed and curtseyed to Spock.

Spock merely blinked back at the assembled.

“Don’t worry, Spock, it will be enjoyable,” Kirk said. “I think. An experience, at least.”

Spock stood with hands behind his back and said nothing.

The regent clapped his hands. “Now! The servants will choose which household they wish to serve in. Who was the first one to choose the ‘butler’ part?”

“That would be me,” McCoy said.

“Fine. Which Lord or lady do you wish to work for?”

“I chose...” McCoy glanced at the first officer. “The Duke of Cambridge.”

Spock threw a sharp glance at McCoy.

“It’s logical, isn’t it?” McCoy said. “You know...since we’ll be writing that paper together....”

“I see,” Spock replied.

“Unless you don’t want me,” McCoy said.

“I do not mind you serving in my household, Doctor.”

“Well, don’t do me any damned favors, Spock!”

“Everything alright over there, Darlings?” the regent asked, then took another long sip of his wine.

“Fine, fine,” McCoy grumbled back.

“Thought maybe you’d come work for me, Bones,” Kirk said.

McCoy folded his arms. “Nope.”

“You can’t work in Spock’s household. You two would kill each other.”

“I pick Spock and that’s final,” McCoy said.

“Hmph,” Jim said.

“Next servant!” the regent commanded. “Who was our other butler?”

“I vas,” Chekov called out.

“And whom do you wish to work for?”

“Uhura, the Countess of Wessex,” Chekov replied.

“Alright, very good. Who is our kitchen maid?”

“Me,” Rand spat out.

“Which household, my dear? Mine? Splendid. I would be delighted!” The regent grinned.

“I choose Lord Spock,” Rand said. “The Duke of Cambridge.”

“Alright, very good, disappointing, but very good,” the regent replied. “Are you certain that you do not wish to work in my household?”

“I’m positive,” Rand replied. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Janice,” Kirk said. “I thought you wanted be MY kitchen maid. Being as you’re my yeoman in real life.”

“Nope,” Rand replied.

“And who was our first footman?” the regent asked.

Mr. Lemli raised his hand.

“Whom do you wish to work for, my dear?”

“The captain, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes, Lord James, Viscount Severin, very good. Who was our second footman?”

Mr. Leslie raised his hand.

“Which household do you choose to work for, my dear?” the regent asked him.

Mr. Leslie shrugged.

“My dear footman, please make haste and endeavor to decide who you want to work for in a timely fashion, isn’t not that difficult. Is it my household? Mind you, I have plenty of footmen in my employ, but I suppose I could fit you in somewhere. You’ll look positively delicious in livery.”

“Hey, I need another footman,” Kirk said.

“Footman, please make a choice before we are old and grey.”

“Mr. Spock,” Mr. Leslie whispered.

“Who?” The regent cupped his ear. “Speak up lad!”

“Mr. Spock,” Mr. Leslie said again.

“Ah, you wish to be footman for the Duke of Cambridge. Excellent choice.”

“I don’t know how to be a footman,” Leslie muttered.

“No matter! You’ll have excellent lessons on how to be a footman. Who was a coachman?”

“I was,” Mr. Kyle said.

“You’re a fellow Brit,” the regent said.

“Yes, Your Grace. Sheffield.”

“Ah, excellent. Whom do you wish to work for?”

Mr. Kyle thought a moment. “Mr. Spock.”

“Ah hah, excellent choice. Have you ever driven a horse drawn carriage?”

“Never,” Mr. Kyle said, “but I’m a fast learner.”

“Splendid. Now is that all of you? Excellent!”

“Wait a minute,” Kirk said. “Why does everybody want to work for Spock’s household? I only have one servant, a footman. What about my butler? My maids? Who’s supposed to wait on me?”

“All of you lovely aristocrats shall have a selection of servants, the remaining servant parts unfilled by your crew will be fulfilled by our colonists. Naturally Spock, the Duke of Cambridge will have the largest amount of servants in his employ, save for myself, of course.”

“Of course,” the captain said.

 

**AN EDUCATION**

 

The crew was split up into two groups and ushered to separate chambers. The aristocrats, which consisted of: Kirk, Mr. Spock, Scotty, Mr. Sulu, Miss Uhura, Miss Chapel and Mr. Hadley were to receive instruction on the social dances of the era, decorum, social ettecuite, ancient language, ancient materials, history, and various other related aristocratic details.

The servants, which comprised of: Dr. McCoy, Mr. Chekov, Mr. Leslie, Mr. Lemli, Mr. Kyle and Yeoman Rand were also taken to yet another room for their instruction.

McCoy followed along with the rest of the servants as they were first led to the robing room. The prince’s butler, second in command to Ebbins the steward, a jolly fellow named Martin handed over a set of clothing to McCoy: A white linen shirt, a long tie cloth, black long trousers, white breeches for more formal occasions, a white waistcoat, black frock coat, several pairs of white stockings, a pair of heeled shoes and a pair of buckled shoes that he dearly hoped would not be uncomfortable and a medium sized brown leather suitcase. “What’s this for?” he asked the butler.

Martin pointed to McCoy’s Starfleet uniform, tricorder, phaser, communicator and medikit. “Storage of your unnecessary clothing and accruement for the duration of your stay. You will place the case underneath your bed, where it shall remain unless it is an absolute emergency.” Martin then placed four white linen garments on top of the suitcase. “Mustn’t forget these.”

“What are those?” McCoy asked.

“Your pants, Sir,” Martin replied.

“My what?”

“Undergarments. Your bloomers, Sir. Your unmentionables.”

“Oh, I see. We’re going all the way.”

“The full monty is the only way, Sir,” Martin said.

McCoy nodded then entered the dressing room. He quickly removed his starfleet uniform and modern underwear. He donned a pair of the 1820’s bloomers, a one piece linen undergarment that fell to his knees. Oh, how attractive. Now onto the clothing. He donned the linen shirt, buttoned it up. He studied the long white piece of cloth then tied a bow tie as best he could. He put a pair of the long black trousers and the double breasted black day-coat.

McCoy had a good look at himself in the full length mirror provided. Not bad. His hairstyle was a little too 23rd century contemporary with the Starfleet points, but maybe that didn’t matter.

He emerged from the dressing area carrying the brown leather suitcase.

The butler beelined it for him and readjusted his tie-cloth. “A proper cravat looks like this, Sir.”

“Thank you. Haven’t tied a bow tie in awhile.”

“There is a knack to it.”

McCoy’s gaze fell to a selection of glasses, spectacles as they would be called in this era. “Hey, those look nice.”

“Do you require spectacles, Sir?”

“These are prescription?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. They can accommodate yours if you need them.”

“I’m on Retinax Five.”

“Feel free to continue taking your Retinax, Sir, if you so desire, spectacles are not required. Unless you wish to wear them for authenticity sake. Most do.”

“When can they be ready?”

“What is your prescription, Sir?”

McCoy told the man. The butler punched the details into a small hand computer which looked out of place in this era. The butler held up a pair of half spectacles, gold rimmed, attached to a chain. He gently put them on McCoy’s face. “Here you go, Sir.”

“They’re redundant right now.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be reliant upon them, after you stop the Retinax. Here is a looking glass.” The butler held it up. “They’re very attractive, if I may say so, myself, Sir.”

McCoy glanced at his reflection. They did look pretty neat. “Alright, I’ll take ‘em.”

At that moment, Leslie and Lemli, the two footmen along with Kyle the coachman exited the dressing area. The men were positively squirming and miserable in long, ponytailed, white powered wigs, replete with curls, red velvet knee breeches, long white stockings, white frilly shirts, buckle shoes and red velvet frock coats.

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Kyle, Mr. Leslie, Mr. Lemli?” McCoy asked.

“I’m hot and itchy,” Mr. Kyle whined as he scratched at his wig. “I don’t know if I can make it for a whole fortnight.”

“How long do we have to wear this get up?” Mr. Lemli asked.

“Two weeks,” McCoy told them.

“Two weeks? This wig?”

“Yes,” McCoy replied. “What about you, Mr. Leslie? What do you think?”

Mr. Leslie shrugged.

“I don’t have to wear a powdered wig like they do, do I?” McCoy asked Martin.

“Heavens no, Sir,” Martin replied. “Livery is only for footmen and coachmen. You wear a butler’s uniform, Sir.”

“What’s the difference between a butler and a steward?”

“A bit more responsibility and pay.”

“Pay?”

Martin nodded. “Of course, Sir. You think we do this for free? As a butler you will earn 10 pounds a week.”

“Is that a lot?” McCoy asked.

The servant shrugged. “Well, one is not as wealthy as a duke. Who is worth several thousand pounds.”

“I’m assuming that’s pretty well off,” McCoy replied.

“Indeed.”

“So you’re an...actor in real life?” McCoy asked.

“Real life, what’s that?” Martin scoffed. “This part I’m playing, the butler for His Grace, this is real life for me. I live, breathe, eat my part. This is reality. This is what I trained for.”

“I see. Did you go to RADA?”

“Oh no. I trained at LAMDA. Don’t let His Grace ever hear me tell you this, but LAMDA is the only sensible place to study theatre. It is the superior drama school in all of the realm.”

“What is LAMDA?”

“‘The London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art’ of course.”

“Oh.”

They heard a noise and turned to find Janice Rand finally walking out of the dressing room.

“I’m not wearing this. Forget it.” The yeoman was clad in a maid’s outfit, black dress, white stockings, buckle shoes complete with a frilly cap on the top of her head, white frilly apron tied around her waist. “I look ridiculous. Maids of this era didn’t wear this. This costume feels like a characature.”

“You will wish to adjust your hairstyle, Miss, to something a bit less elaborate in future,” Martin suggested.

“I like my hairstyle as it stands. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Yes, Miss, but you might want something a bit easier in the mornings.”

“My hair is fine,” Rand insisted.

“Janice, you look adorable!” McCoy said. “I’m sure your costume is accurate. Then again I haven’t really researched proper servant attire during the Regency era.”

“This outfit looks like something I once wore for halloween! I not going to have to do housework drudgery wearing this ugly thing, am I?”

“I do believe so, Miss,” Martin confirmed.

“It’s only for two weeks, Janice,” McCoy said in an attempt to reassure her. “Be over with before you know it.”

Mr. Chekov finally appeared, the last of the group, clad identically to McCoy and looking as glum as the others. “I vant to be an aristocrat.”

The others nodded in agreement, sadness etched on their faces. McCoy chuckled.

“It appears you are all present and accounted for. Are you all ready for the classroom?” Martin said.

“Well,” McCoy replied. “Let’s get this over with.”

*

For the first few hours of their initiation, the prince’s Steward, Ebbins, taught the entire servant group the finer points of being a member of staff in 1820’s old England: How to properly set a table, how to address the aristocrats, care and feeding of guests, proper edicutte, the many duties of each servant, how to perform a dinner service. The hour one was expected to rise in the household (too damned early).

They they broke apart into little focus groups. Janice Rand was taken away by a ladies maid to teach her more precisely her particular duties. Mr. Kyle was led away by the prince’s coachman, to instruct him how to drive a horse drawn carriage.

Dr. McCoy and Mr. Chekov remained behind with Ebbins. They listened intently as the steward went on to demonstrate in McCoy’s case, how best to serve a male aristocrat. How the butler lays out the master’s clothing if there is no valet available, how to hire a valet if the master of the house so requires it. In Chekov’s case: The ladies maid, overseen by the housekeeper, would attend the dress of the lady of his household. Chekov would act as valet for male guests, if needed.

They would lose their contemporary titles. McCoy would not be addressed as ‘Doctor’, rather his last name by the master of the house, or ‘Sir’ by the lower servants.

They were shown how to properly draw a bath for the men, how to make tea, how to start a fire in the fireplace if a footman was unavailable, how to use a quill pen, how to use a pocket watch, how to answer the front door, how to take calling cards, how to take charge of the other male house servants. They were instructed on how the master or mistress of the house will normally entertain for lunch, then dinner. There was proper attire for the lord and ladies at each time of day. In the evening if in London, the aristocrat will want to attend the theatre or the opera, or perhaps dancing at a ball, or Hyde Park--

“What’s in Hyde Park?” McCoy wondered.

“Parading,” Ebbins said. “You, McCoy, will attend the duke when he parades, if needed.”

“Vat is parading?” Chekov asked.

“The Lady Nyota will know all about it.” Ebbins replied.

McCoy and Chekov looked at each other and shrugged. McCoy couldn’t imagine Spock doing any kind of parading in Hyde Park, whatever it was.

It hit him at that moment, the ‘aristocrat’ he would be attending, taking care of every whim, would be the first officer. What kind of a lord would Spock make? Most likely, the Vulcan would still be as reluctant as before to participate in this charade and would spend the entire two weeks holed up in his bed chamber, sneaking longing peeks at his tri-corder or dataPADD and counting the days till he could return to the Enterprise. Would the Vulcan still would be interested in co-writing that paper? Maybe not.

At any rate it looked as if this would be a long two weeks full of lots of drudgery. That is if Spock really expected to be waited on. Maybe McCoy and the other servants might be able to relax and enjoy themselves if the master wasn’t watching them like a hawk.

McCoy sighed and found his mind wandering to how Spock might actually look in Regency attire. The first officer usually cut an attractive figure in their costumes they’d had to don over the various missions, when they were trying to go incognito. Not that he spent much time looking at Spock in that way. Alright, maybe he might have glanced a quick moment or two, especially that one time when Spock had to wear those tight trousers and disco vest and nothing under neath it. The Vulcan’s pants had looked like they had been painted on and all that black chest hair on display--

“Are you listening, McCoy?” Ebbins asked.

“Huh? Oh yeah.” McCoy blushed.

Ebbins went on to say that the duke or countess might wish to adjourn to his or her respective country manors for a few days. The butler would oversee the move to the country.

“Move?” McCoy asked. “How far away are we talking?”

“The Duke’s country manor is in Cambridge. The Countess’ country manor is in Wessex.”

“How do we travel there?”

“By carriage of course.”

“Like that bumpy carriage that we arrived here on?”

“Indeed,” Ebbins replied.

McCoy rubbed his back in woeful anticipation. However, he also couldn’t imagine Spock wanting to uproot and travel all that way by rickety carriage to Cambridge for a few days. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble.

Before they were released to their respective houses, McCoy and Chekov were told that the members of the aristocracy would decide on a safe word. When anybody in their group uttered that word, in a emergency, one would immediately be able to drop Regency character and attend to the crisis.

“What’s the safe word?” McCoy asked.

“The duke will inform you, upon his arrival.”

_______________

on to next chapter


	3. The London House

**THE LONDON HOUSE**

 

McCoy boarded the carriage headed to Mayfair, the most fashionable district in the west end of London. He fluffed out his coat before sitting down in the carriage as so not to wrinkle his tails, as he’d been instructed to do.

The ride to Grosvenor Square, where the Duke of Cambridge’s London house was located, was rickety, bumpy, cramped and loud with the sound of horse’s hoofs on cobble stone streets.

McCoy wiped his hands on his tailcoat. Goddamn it, was he nervous? What the hell did he have to be nervous about? He had been thoroughly instructed of everything he needed to do in the household. He felt confident that he could perform all the assigned duties. He had his white gloves in his pocket all ready for service. He could do this. He could wear this silly penguin outfit and be a butler and wait on Spock hand and foot. He’d never been a waiter, maybe he should have in his early days to prepare himself. However, he’d managed to adapt to the hectic life aboard ship, ergo he could handle this.

He slid the half spectacles off his nose, very gently, as he’d been shown how to do. He wiped the sweat off his nose and brow. He shined the fragile glass lenses on his coat then re-donned the spectacles again carefully, positioning them just right and tucking the ear parts behind his ears. In twenty-four hours his scrip would wear off and he’d truly be reliant upon them. All this for authenticity’s sake.

If anybody happened to fall ill or was injured, he was breaking out the medi-kit, to hell with authenticity. He shuddered at the thought of leeches.

Janice Rand sat directly in front of him, staring out of the window. By the looks of her revamped hairstyle, he guessed the ladies maids had finally managed to convince her to change it. Now her shoulder length blonde locks were were gathered up in a simple bun, frilly white cap resting on top.

McCoy reached forward and touched her arm. “You alright, Janice?” he asked over the sound of: clop, clop, clop, clop.

“I think you’re supposed to address me as Rand or Miss or whatever, I forgot.”

“It’s alright, I’m not a stickler for decorum.”

“Yeah, but Spock might be.”

McCoy nodded.

Kyle the coachman sat next to the prince’s coachman up front, still learning the job. Leslie sat at the rear of the carriage in the jump seat.

It wasn’t long before they pulled up in front of a large detached three story house. Number 20 Grosvenor Square. The area didn’t really resemble a square per se, but was a collection of streets surrounding a huge gated garden. This was the most fashionable, most desirable, most expensive square in all of London. Nothing but the best for the Duke of Cambridge.

Mr. Leslie opened the door and stood next to it.

“After you, my dear,” McCoy told Janice.

“I think the butler gets to go first,” Janice said.

“I’m not a butler yet. Until then, ladies first, Madam,” McCoy huffed and motioned impatiently. Janice giggled. Leslie helped her out.

Their little ragtag group of dressed up servants finally stood at the front door. Janice Rand had been correct, this did feel a lot like Halloween.

“Well, do we...just knock?” McCoy wondered.

Mr. Leslie shrugged.

“I believe so, Sir,” Kyle said.

McCoy knocked, using the handy and very shiny brass door knocker.

After a moment, the door opened. Standing in the open doorway was a short, middle aged, attractive woman, obviously a high ranking maid. Maybe a housekeeper? Black dress. White stockings. Buckle shoes. A white frilly apron around her waist but no cap on her head.

“‘Ello!” the woman said. She had an accent that McCoy recognized as Cockney from the east end of London.

“How do you do?” McCoy said. “We’re uh...we came from the...uh...we’re the... new servants of the Duke of Cambridge. Is this the correct house?”

“Oh!” The woman broke out in a huge grin. “You must be Mr. McCoy and company!”

“Dr. McCoy,” he corrected her. He held out his hand and she shook it.

“Oh well, there are worse vocations. Never mind, Sir. I’m Cook! Don’t stand here chatting all bloody day, come in, come in you lot, make yourselves at home!”

They followed Cook into the entry hall. McCoy glanced around and couldn’t help but gasp at the sumptuousness of the room. High ceiling. Black and white marble floor, dark wood panelling covering the walls. Numerous paintings and sculptures. Rose colored brocade drapery, fussy yet austere enough however that a Vulcan might approve off it.

Cook took the group on a tour of the kitchen and scullery also on the ground floor. The kitchen was very large and utilitarian, with a huge stove. The large wooden servants dining table was off to one side. There they met the other house servants: Marcy, the scullery maid. Ella, the parlor maid, Julia the chamber maid. Then the second footman, Williams and the second coachman, Trenton.

Next they viewed the front parlor where the duke would most likely entertain his guests. That room, done up in yellow and blue, contained huge windows facing the gated gardens, a wood fortepiano, blue silk rugs hailing all the way from India, a dark brown wooden floor, yellow silk dupioni drapery, blue brocade sofas. A bookcase was stuffed full with what looked to be first edition books.

Then it was on to the library, done up in green fabric and dark wood paneling. In that room was a large marble chess set along with more bookcases of first edition books, a huge marble globe of Earth. There were green sofas and leather chairs to relax upon and a huge mahogany desk, with a black quill pen and inkwell. This room also, might appeal to the the duke.

They next viewed the various guest rooms which were all very comfortably appointed and each decorated in its own separate colors. Each guest room had its own watercloset. Indoor plumbing, McCoy noted. They had indoor plumbing in 1820?

“Where’s the duke’s bedroom?” Janice asked.

“Ah, the duke’s bedchamber is off limits to all but the butler and footmen,” Cook replied. “The butler and footmen are tasked with keeping the lord’s bedchamber in order.”

Next they were shown the servants quarters. Kyle and Leslie would share with the other coachmen and footmen and were located in the basement. Janice would be sharing with the scullery maid up in the attic.

“Where are my quarters?” McCoy wondered.

“I’ll show you that room in a bit,” Cook said. “That’s on the first floor.”

Back in the kitchen, Cook offered them all tea on plain white but very delicate cups and saucers.

Cook then showed the group the bell system, for when the duke and his guests needed them. When their respective bells rang, each servant was expected to answer it promptly. McCoy took note of his own bell on the far left.

After all the introductions, Janice, Kyle and Leslie then took off for their respective rooms. The other servants disappeared. McCoy and Cook were left alone.

“Now, I shall show you to your quarters, Sir,” Cook said. “Right this way.” They walked up the main staircase.

McCoy halted to admire the huge stained glass window in the landing. “Wow.”

“Nice, isn’t it? Wait till you see the one in the duke’s bedchamber.”

They reached the top of the stairs then walked along the hallway of the first floor. “That’s the duke’s door, then your door is this one.”

“My quarters are not with the other servants?” McCoy replied.

“Oh no, Sir. Yours are adjacent to the duke’s bedchamber. Much more efficient that way.”

“Where is the duke, by the way?”

“He’ll be here, shortly. There will be a front door bell to announce his impending arrival. I trust you will be settled in quickly enough so all can attend him?”

“Certainly,” McCoy said. “Just need to stow this.” He held up his suitcase. “And maybe use the facilities to freshen up a bit.”

“Ah, yes. Best to take care of any personal things before the duke’s arrival.”

“So the house has indoor plumbing throughout, is that correct, Ma’am?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. You, as the butler, have your own en suite watercloset. A perk.”

“Thank the great bird of the galaxy for that. How many waterclosets total in the house, Ma’am?”

“Nine, Sir, including the duke’s bathroom and the the waterclosets in the guest rooms. And behind the kitchen in the small yard by the scullery, there is an additional outhouse for the footmen and coachmen.”

“They don’t get to use the waterclosets indoors, Ma’am?”

“No Sir, definatly not.”

“Poor Leslie and Kyle. Well, thanks, Ma’am.”

“Please, call me ‘Cook’, Sir. The waterclosets in this house were only just installed by the Regent. He wished for you to be comfortable.”

“Excellent, glad to hear it. Please lead the way,” McCoy said.

*

“Your quarters, Sir,” Cook said.

McCoy went inside and glanced around. Very cosy. Smaller than his quarters back aboard ship. The room was barely large enough to fit a single bed. He set down his suitcase, plopped down on the mattress, topped by a thin duvet. The bed was not the most comfortable thing in the universe, but it was for only two weeks and he’d slept in worse on some planets. There was also a simple wardrobe, dresser and nightstand. A tiny fireplace. And of course the en suite watercloset.

On the wall there was another bell. For when the duke called upon him from the bedchamber. Couldn’t get away from being summoned.

He noticed an adjoining door, that one was closed. McCoy turned around to ask Cook: “Where does that lead to?”

She looked at him like he’d grown another head. “That is the door to the duke’s room. Please, open it, look around, familiar yourself with it. Since we are currently without a valet, much of your duties will take place in there. You will bring the duke his morning tea and breakfast and evening tea and cake in bed, draw his bath, assist in bathing and toilette, dress him for dinner and anything the duke may require.”

He tried to picture Spock drinking tea with a fussy cup and saucer and having cake in bed, hair all mussed, wearing an 1820’s style nightgown or robe.

And more importantly, would Spock actually let him double as valet, dressing him? That might be interesting. He gave a silent prayer that Spock would.

He blushed, shook his head free of the thoughts. “Yes, I think I believe I can manage that, thank you, Cook.”

Cook arched an eyebrow that could rival Spock’s. “I shall leave you with your toilette, don’t forget the duke will be home soon. I must see to my kitchen.”

“Yes, Cook, thank you, again.”

The woman disappeared.

McCoy turned around and slid his suitcase underneath his bed. Outta sight outta mind.

He went into his watercloset. Finally. He had to pee so damned bad. Inside was a toilet maybe not too different from what he was used to. Toilet design hadn’t really changed much in hundreds of years. A bit more primitive however, with a pull chain, but it least it was an indoor toilet. He lifted up the lid and seat, fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings of his trousers, unbuttoning it and getting himself out before he peed his goddamned Regency pants.

He glanced over idly at the bath tub, the water taps, and noticed the shaving accouterment. The razor, the stuff to make shaving creme, the bowl to mix it in, the brush. Ooo, he was going to be able to bathe in hot water in a real claw foot tub. Look at that ancient thing. It had been a long time since he’d had a real bath. And he would have the opportunity to shave with straight razor. That thing looked almost lethal. Luckily he’d done it before, back home every once in awhile.

He wondered how Spock would manage a straight razor. How Jim and everyone else would. Most of them would probably cheat and take their body hair repressants.

Would Spock let him shave him? Probably not. Spock seemed like the type to keep taking that repressor, surely. There wasn’t any hard and fast rule that they couldn’t.

“I’m gonna be the best goddamned Regency butler Spock’s ever had,” he mumbled to himself, shaking off, tucking himself back into his bloomers. He fastened up his trousers, which was going to be a pain in ass, he could tell.

He washed his hands, dried them on the provided towel.

On to the duke’s bedchamber. He exited his room through the adjoining door.

Large, comfortably appointed and very beautiful, decorated in blue much like the parlor, the duke’s bedchamber could easily quadruple the size of their respective cabins aboard ship. On one wall was the aforementioned stained glass windows, which he bet would look heavenly with the light streaming in, come morning.

In the center of the room, headboard against the far wall, there was a four poster bed with a canopy. Huge. Mahogany wood. Larger than king sized. Looked very inviting to sleep on. He wondered how the duke would like that bed. He sat down on it, felt a twinge of jealously. Oh goodness, like sleeping on feathers. Maybe it was real feathers. He patted it. Maybe he could convince Spock to swap rooms.

The front doorbell rang.

He got to his feet. That was the duke. He checked himself in the duke’s full length mirror, made sure all was in order.

*

McCoy made his way downstairs via the main staircase. The servants were already lined up in the entry hall in their pecking order: Cook, then Leslie the first footman, then Williams the second footman, then Ella the parlor maid, then Julia the chamber maid, then Janice the kitchen maid, then Marcy the scullery maid, then finally Kyle and Trenton the other coachman.

McCoy strode past them, inspecting each servant, nodding. Making sure all appeared ship shape as the butler was required to do.

He opened up the front door, walked out to the large porch, flanked by Leslie.

McCoy could hear the clip, clop, in the distance, growing louder by each passing second. “Ready for this adventure, Leslie?”

Mr. Leslie shrugged.

As the clip, clops grew still louder, his heart begin to pound even harder in anticipation. Why he was so damned nervous and excited, he didn’t know. He rubbed his sweaty palms yet again on his trousers. “Goddammit.”

The carriage approached. McCoy stood at attention, Leslie right behind him.

The carriage came to a stop. He walked up to the door, waited as Leslie opened it.

Finally, standing in front of him, was none other than the Duke of Cambridge.

“Good afternoon, My Lord Duke,” McCoy managed.

Holy hell. Lord Spock...the duke looked....good God...he was....

The duke wore a brown double breasted daytime tail coat, boasting shiny golden buttons. He had on a matching brown top hat, a tie cloth tied just so, yellow knee breeches, brown knee high boots.

With an aristocratic air to him, Spock seemed every inch the Regency duke.

“Good Afternoon, McCoy,” the duke replied. Those dark eyes stared at the spectacles, taking in the butler outfit.

McCoy performed a low bow and said as formally as he could muster: “I trust your journey was satisfactory, My Lord Duke.”

“Indeed.”

McCoy turned and snapped his fingers for Leslie to hurry up and fetch the duke’s suitcase so that the royal coach could take off. He was to keep addressing Spock as ‘My Lord Duke’, until the duke decided to ever allow him to call him anything else. And he was going to keep it up every chance he got. See how long it took for Spock to crack. “You will find the house is all in order, My Lord Duke.”

“‘My Lord’ is sufficient address, McCoy.”

McCoy smirked. Took only ninety seconds for the Vulcan to crack.

The duke passed through the doorway, walking into the entry hall. The servants bowed and curtseyed. They would only really need to do that for the duke once per day. Spock strode down the line, glancing at each servant. McCoy followed behind.

“May I take your hat, My Lord?” McCoy said.

“Indeed you may,” the duke replied. McCoy handed it over to Leslie to hang up in the closet.

As the duke neared her, Janice let out a slight gasp. McCoy smirked at her behind Spock’s back.

“Go to the head of the row, McCoy,” the duke snapped.

“Of course, My Lord.” As McCoy moved to the front, he heard Leslie’s quick footsteps as the man also dove into line.

The duke stood in front of them. “I trust that this fortnight shall proceed smoothly. I, of course, shall expect the utmost decorum throughout. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, My Lord Duke,” they all chorused.

McCoy snickered as he got a sudden visual of a previous mission: Those hundreds of androids saying: ‘Yes, my Lord Mudd’.

“Something amusing, McCoy?” the duke asked. All eyes were on McCoy.

“No. Sorry.”

Spock turned back to the other servants. “‘My Lord’ is an adequate form of address from now on. I shall be entertaining this evening, for dinner. Cook, I will leave it to you to ensure that tonight’s menu shall be stellar.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Cook said. “It will be an honor to serve you.”

“How many guests are we to expect this evening, My Lord?” McCoy asked.

“Let me see,” the duke said. “There will be the Earl of Liverpool, The Countess of Wessex, The Earl of Perth, The Earl of Snowdon, along with Viscount and Viscountess Severin and the Duke of North Hampton.”

“Very good, My Lord,” McCoy said. All the aristocrats from the Enterprise and one additional nobleman. That should be interesting.

“Before I dismiss you all to your duties,” the duke said, “there is one important note of administration to discuss. This mostly applies to my fellow Enterprise crew persons. I am to proclaim a safe word in the event of an emergency, whereas we shall drop character and deal with said crisis. The safe word is: ‘Chartreuse’.”

Chartreuse? McCoy had to clamp his mouth shut to avoid giggling again. However a small squeak did manage to sneak out of his mouth. The duke turned again. But McCoy was already at attention, facing forward.

“McCoy, dismiss the servants. I shall retire to the front parlor.”

“Very good, My Lord. Servants, to your duties,” McCoy said. They scattered as fast as they could.

McCoy watched as the duke strode off to the parlor before making his own way into the kitchen. It was absolute chaos in there. Janice Rand was freaking out, jumping up and down, laughing hysterically.

“Janice, what the hell’s the matter with you?” McCoy asked her in the stuffiest voice he could manage and glared at her. It seemed easy to look very officious with his suit and spectacles on.

“Spock! He looks gorgeous in that outfit! Oh my God! Just like Mr. Darcy from ‘Pride and Prejudice!” Rand said and cackled as she picked up her napkin linens to fold.

“Yes!” Cook agreed, calling out sing-song-like from the stove as she stirred. “The Duke of Cambridge is very handsome, indeed!”

At that, Janice giggled madly.

“What the hell does Mr. Darcy look like?” McCoy wondered.

“Haven’t you ever read Jane Austen’s books?” Janice asked.

“No.”

“Spock looks like Darcy. Those eyes. Haughty. Just like Darcy.”

“Alright, fine. If you say so,” McCoy said.

“Mr. Darcy’s only a gentleman,” the scullery maid said. “The Duke of Cambridge is...well, he’s the Duke of Cambridge! Third in line to the throne!”

“Yeah,” Rand said. “I--”

“Janice!” Cook bellowed out. “Start rolling out that pastry! We don’t have all bleedin’ afternoon! Marcy! Get to washin’!”

“Yes, Cook!”

McCoy had to agree, Spock did give off that smoldering, brooding, haughty vibe. Spock looked damned good in that costume and seemed like he knew it, too.

Janice kept up her giggling as she rolled out the dough. “Sexy, sexy, Spock. Wooo. Who’d a thought he’d look so damned--”

“Janice, get yourself in order, my dear, or I shall be forced to dock your pay.” McCoy donned his white gloves and picked up the silver tray bearing tea and cake that Cook had so kindly laid out for him. He placed the tray on his arm, balancing the tea cup, milk, sugar, plate of lemon cake, teapot just like he’d been coached.

“Yes, Sir,” Janice said, looking up from that pastry dough. “But, I think you really missed your calling as a waiter.”

McCoy winked at her before exiting the kitchen.

_______________________  
on to next chapter


	4. Forte

**FORTE**

 

McCoy could hear the strains of beautiful fortepiano music as he walked into the front parlor. Was that the duke playing? Maybe it was recorded music. Seemed so complex a tune, even for Spock.

He entered and saw that was indeed Lord Spock at the keys. The duke’s tails were flipped over the bench.

The duke noticed him and immediate ceased playing, the silence jarring.

“Don’t stop on my account,” McCoy told him.

“Where have you been, McCoy?” The duke didn’t glance up from studying the sheet music.

“Apologies for the delay, My Lord. Tea takes time. Must prepare it just so,” McCoy said with some sarcasm in his tone. “Here’s some lemon cake, as well. Vulcans appear to like cake a great deal.”

The duke spun around on him on the bench, fixing him with a cold glare. McCoy couldn’t tell--Was the Vulcan truly annoyed or simply acting? The duke’s voice was the epitome of self restraint. “Bring the tea along, McCoy. I shall dress for dinner in my bedchamber.”

“Very good, My Lord.”

They exited the parlor, the duke leading the way up the main staircase, McCoy following him with the silver tray.

On the landing, the duke paused to stare at the stained glass window. “McCoy,” he said. “Instruct the footman to be much more thorough in his cleaning, I notice a spot on the glass.”

“Yes, My Lord,” McCoy said. But he knew that’s not why Spock had stopped to look. That was the first time the Vulcan had seen this stunning stained glass window, he was admiring it. However, the duke needed to pretend he lived here, needed to act as if he had seen these a million times and had to cover with something. “I’ll have the footman take care of it, immediately.”

The duke went up to the first floor, made his way down the hall glancing over at McCoy to see where he stopped.

McCoy halted at the first door on the right. “Your bedchamber, My Lord.”

“Indeed.”

“Just as you left it.” McCoy opened the door for him.

The duke entered the room, glanced around. He paused at the large four poster bed.

“Quite ostentatious, My Lord, would you not agree?” McCoy said with a slight smirk.

Spock met his eyes, then turned away. “It is adequate for my needs, McCoy.” He walked over to the secretary desk on the far side of the room, a piece of furniture that seemed a bit too small for his long legs. “Why are my belongings not unpacked and put away?”

“They will be shortly, My Lord. My apologies. We are down a valet.”

“When you unpack my things, place my journal here with my pen and ink. I will require them tonight.”

“Right away, My Lord.”

Spock snapped his fingers at McCoy--actually snapped his damned fingers. McCoy’s jerked his head back in surprise.

“McCoy, quickly. Time is of the essence. Select me a coat for dinner.”

McCoy hesitated, stuffed down his anger at being snapped at. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and dug through the wardrobe. Dinner attire was supposed to be single breasted black or dark blue coat. “Black velvet?”

“Yes, fine,” the duke replied in an impatient tone of voice.

“What color waistcoat would you like, My Lord?”

“Whichever one goes, McCoy. I trust you can decide.”

“The red one?”

The duke shrugged.

“Alright, My Lord. The red waistcoat should look very fetching for dinner.”

He helped the duke out of his day-coat then hung it up. He undid then removed the tie cloth. He waited until Spock unbuttoned and removed his linen day shirt, then the brown boots and yellow breeches.

The duke stood there in his knee length bloomers. McCoy couldn’t help but glance down at them. Spock was wearing the silly underwear, too. Well, of course he would be. Just seemed so--

“McCoy, have you not ever seen a man down to their undergarments before? Surely you have. Why do you stare so?” Goddamn, Spock even spoke like a Regency aristocrat. In fact they were both starting to sound like they really belonged in 1820.

“Forgive me, My Lord.” McCoy dressed the duke in his evening attire then selected a pair of stockings. He held up a pair of black patent leather heeled shoes. “How about these, My Lord?”

“No, no, McCoy. I prefer boots.”

“Boots... for the evening, My Lord?”

“Always,” Spock said. “I prefer them over the shoes.”

“Very good, My Lord. Boots it is.”

*

The door bell rang. Leslie opened the carriage door. McCoy waited as the coachman helped out Viscount and Viscountess Severin.

Lord James entered the house, dressed like a dandy of the era. Lady Christine followed behind.

“Good evening, My Lord, My Lady,” McCoy said. Kirk smirked, patted McCoy on the shoulder. Christine looked lovely in a white linen dress with short sleeves, a train in back. “Your hat, My Lord.” Kirk handed it over. “Your shawl, My Lady.” He took it from her. “Right this way, please.”

He ushered them into the front parlor. “My Lord, I present Lord James and Lady Christine.”

He waved them in.

Moments later, when Lady Nyota, the Countess of Wessex’s coach showed up, McCoy did the same, announcing her arrival.

Then Lord Montgomery arrived, looking very dashing in tails. The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of Lady Nyota in her pink linen dress.

McCoy announced the remainder of the guests that trickled in after that. Then he went to the kitchen to wait until it was time to commence the dinner service.

Of course it was chaos in the kitchen. Cook was barking out orders at the maids.

“Anything I can do to assist you, Cook?” McCoy yelled out above the din.

“No, thank you, almost ready for you!”

The footmen came up, stood at attention.

“Ready!” Cook said.

McCoy went out to the front parlor. “My Lords and Ladies, dinner is served.”

*

Dinner service was a disaster. Not so much for the guests, who didn’t notice a thing. The food was excellent according to them. They gave their complements to Cook.

But behind the scenes, in the kitchen, it was another story. Dropped dishes smashing on the floor, lost food, crystal goblets and snifters slipping out of the footmen’s hands. Servants colliding and tripping and falling.

McCoy clapped his hands. “Stop running! Walk!”

During the third course, Leslie forgot his white gloves while serving. McCoy’s breath hitched in panic as he stood there supervising, he hadn’t noticed until it was too late and the footman was already out.

Back in the kitchen, McCoy pulled the young man aside. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Do you want to be fired on your first day here? Don’t forget those gloves again.”

Leslie shrugged and took off.

McCoy made sure he had his own white gloves on when he went out to refresh the drinks. Lord James kept on that damned smarmy smirking at him. He looked back, daring the Viscount with a glance to make a smart ass comment. The Viscount refrained.

“Thank you, McCoy,” the duke said.

McCoy replied back to Spock in his best stuffy butler voice: “Of course, My Lord.”

Lord James couldn’t handle it any longer and broke out into hysterical laughter. McCoy glanced back, raised an eyebrow, then exited the dining room. He heard more laughter from the rest of the guests, save for the duke of course.

*

Finally, it was time for the guests to leave the little dinner party.

As the group stood in the entry way, chatting amongst themselves, Leslie brought the guests coats one by one.

The final wrap was Viscountess Severin. Leslie handed it over to McCoy.

“Your shawl, My Lady,” McCoy breathed in Lady Christine’s ear, placing it around her shoulders. The viscountess giggled softly.

Then it was time for the viscount’s hat. However, there seemed to be a short delay. McCoy snapped his fingers again. Finally Leslie came running up, his buckle shoes tapping on the floor, his wig flapping. The man tripped then went sprawling. The guests gasped. McCoy went over, helped the man to his feet, retrieving the viscount’s hat off the marble floor.

“Leslie, are you alright?” Lord James asked.

“Yes, our footman is just fine,” McCoy said. “Your hat, My Lord.”

“Hey, Spock?”

“Yes, James?” Spock replied.

“I love your butler, what’s his name? Oh, ‘McCoy’. I may have to steal him. So efficient.”

“You have a butler of your own, James,” Spock said.

“Yes, but yours is so much more efficient.”

Lord and Lady Severin’s carriage pulled up. Leslie opened the door, stood waiting. The group moved outside still chatting, McCoy stood behind, keeping out of their way.

Finally all of the guests were all boarded into their respective coaches, then driven off, down the square.

Spock, McCoy and Leslie stood there watching the last carriage disappear.

“So glad that’s over with,” McCoy quipped, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Really, McCoy. Your impropriety alarms me,” the duke said. McCoy turned his head sharply at that rebuke. There was another of that now patented Spock aristocratic glare. “Leslie, one does not run on the floors of my home in front of guests. See to it that it does not happen again.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Leslie murmured.

“My apologies, My Lord,” McCoy said.

“How was service tonight?” Spock asked.

“Dinner went well, however, there is room for improvement, My Lord.”

“You will want to discuss this with the staff. Remind them of decorum.”

“Right away, My Lord.”

“I am to attend the opening night of ‘Tosca’ as a guest of the Regent. I will adjourn to my bed chamber to change my attire. Time grows short. Do not keep me waiting long, McCoy.”

Spock turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving McCoy and Leslie outside.

McCoy tilted his head back. “Ugh. I feel like Cinderella.” He turned to Leslie. “You alright?”

Leslie nodded.

McCoy knelt down, examining Leslie’s torn breeches and injured knee. “You’re gonna have an awful bruise there, but you’ll live.”

Leslie nodded.

“Go get yourself some supper in the kitchen. Have Cook repair your trousers.”

Leslie nodded again and ran into the house.

 

**TOSCA**

 

‘Tosca’ was of course an opera (albeit an anachronism in this place, because Puccini didn’t write it until 1890, but apparently that was of no consequence). It would be performed at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Spock was to be attired in the most formal of tuxedos. Black velvet single breasted tails, white waistcoat, white tie-cloth, black breeches, white stockings.

“Sure you don’t want to wear these buckled shoes, My Lord? I’ve heard the ladies love a man in buckles.”

“McCoy,” Spock warned.

McCoy handed the duke his left black boot. “So, uh. ‘Tosca’, huh?”

Spock put it on. “Indeed.”

“Hmph. Be nice if uh...you could bring a guest along.”

“Who?” The duke reached for the right boot.

McCoy handed it over. “Your butler.”

Spock scoffed. “My butler as my guest at the Royal Opera House? Please. You have duties to attend before my return.”

McCoy pouted.

*

McCoy and Leslie watched the carriage driven by Kyle and Trenton disappear. “Well, that takes care of the duke for a few hours,” McCoy breathed out.

They back went into the house. McCoy walked into the kitchen and realized he was famished.

“Come, Sir, have some supper,” Cook said, motioning him to the servants meal table. “Been keeping it warm for you.”

“Oh, that smells delicious my dear, thank you.” Cook poured him a glass of wine. He hadn’t tasted food this good in a long time. Much better than that reconstituted crap they passed off as food aboard the ship.

Afterwards he helped Janice and Cook and Marcy wash up the rest of the dishes. He went into the dining room and helped Leslie and Williams collect the forgotten crystal goblets, brandy snifters and some assorted plates. He then moved to the front parlor to straighten up, assisting Ella the parlor maid.

After all of that was taken care of and Ella went off to her quarters, he looked over at the clock. Five to Ten. Probably be about another hour or so before the duke returned. That was enough time to relax a bit, get some light reading in. Have a small glass of brandy. That crystal decanter right there in the parlor was calling out his name.

There was a small plate on the glass coffee table filled with chocolates. Maybe he’d have a few of these leftover goodies. Whatever they were. Looked inviting. The candelabra flickered as he drew near. He picked a up a chocolate, sampled it. Oooh. Liqueur infused. He couldn’t place the flavor but they were delicious. He had another, then another. Mmmmm. He had a couple more.

He went to the crystal decanter, poured himself a snifter of brandy. He got up, went to the bookshelf that Ella had just finished dusting for the hundredth time that day. He ran his finger along the spines. They were worth a lot of money back on Earth. He selected a book, ‘Great Expectations’ and sat down on the sofa.

The spectacles were digging into his nose. He carefully removed the glasses, letting them lay on his chest. He loosened his tie cloth a little, took off his tail coat, laid that aside. He toed off those damned buckle shoes. He made himself comfy, stretching out on the sofa. Just had to make sure all was back in order by the time the duke returned. He closed his eyes to rest them for a moment.

*

He felt a hand on his arm, shaking him.

“Hmm,” he murmured.

He finally opened his eyes to find the dour figure of the Duke of Cambridge standing over him, carrying his own top hat.

McCoy sat up. “You’re home,” he grunted out. “Time is it?”

Spock straightened up to full height. “McCoy, if you are unable to properly perform the duties of a butler and valet, I am quite happy to have the footman take over in your stead, tonight and for the upcoming fortnight.”

McCoy swung his legs around. Somehow his book had vanished. “No, no, no, that won’t be necessary. I’m awake. Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

Spock turned his back, walking to the other side of the parlor.

McCoy got to his feet. His spectacles swung loose on the chain, back and forth. His tailcoat was a crumpled black puddle on the floor. He scooped it up, draping it over his arm. He dove into his shoes then hurried over to rejoin the duke. He scooped up a candlestick, lighting it from the candelabra. “I assume you’re ready to retire to your bed chamber?”

Spock pulled back. “Not only are you undressed, McCoy. You are quite inebriated. I shall call the footman.”

“Spock,” McCoy whispered. “I said, I was alright. I only had one glass of brandy while I waited for you to come home and maybe a few of those leftover chocolates, I--”

“‘Spock’?” the duke hissed, almost seethed. “‘Spock’ indeed. That is how you address me? So familiar?”

For crying out loud. Spock was taking this goddamned aristocratic, arrogant, upper class Regency thing a bit too far. “Now listen here, you goddamned pointy eared, green blooded--”

The duke’s eyes grew wide. “Footman!”

There was a short delay which felt like an eternity as they silently glared daggers at each other. Finally Williams the second footman came up. “My Lord?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. Williams was so crisp, pressed, so professional even though it was...he looked over at the clock. Two am. Jesus Christ. McCoy scratched at his forehead.

“Williams, you will be acting as my valet tonight,” Spock began, “perhaps you might even be promoted to butler--”

“Williams, you are dismissed,” McCoy said. “My Lord, I am more than capable of escorting you to your bedchamber and fulfilling my duties as valet and as butler.”

“Williams, you shall follow me to my bedroom,” Spock said. “Until McCoy places his coat back on and makes himself presentable, he is in no condition to act as my valet or butler.”

McCoy huffed, quickly tucked in his shirt, donned his coat, buttoned it, straightened out his tie and donned his glasses. “Williams, you are dismissed,” he said.

Spock turned, glanced at McCoy. “Very well. Williams, you are indeed, dismissed for the night.”

“Very good, My Lord.” The footman turned and walked out.

McCoy gave a small bow. “After you, My Lord.”

*

The fire was out in the fireplace in Spock’s bed chamber. McCoy didn’t ask the duke if he wanted it relit and the duke didn’t mention anything about it. He set the candlestick down on the nightstand.

He took the hat from the duke, helped him remove his tail coat, hanging them both up. Then he removed the cufflinks, tie cloth, pocket watch. He threw the duke’s linen shirt and neck cloth into the laundry chute. He went to the chest of drawers, pulled out a nightgown and the duke’s brocade robe and set them down on the dressing chair.

He went over to the duke’s bed, turned part of the duvet down. “How was ‘Tosca’, My Lord?”

Spock did not answer. The Vulcan donned his nightgown, then picked up the robe and put it on.

“Well then, I think you can handle the rest just fine. Unless you need me to tuck you in bed and read you a bedtime story. Don’t forget to brush your teeth and blow out the candle.”

Spock would not look at him. There was none of that usual banter between them. On board the Enterprise, the first officer would have given some sort of snappy comeback. He was starting to miss the old Spock. The non-aristocratic Spock. This noble version of Spock was nothing but an asshole. Goddamn it, couldn’t they even try to argue in Regency character? It would be fun but Spock was having none of it right now.

“Thank you, McCoy. You may go.”

He tried again to engage Spock in some kind of dialogue. “Good night, My Lord. Sleep well. If you need me during the night, I’ll be in my room. Right there, next door. Convenient, huh? However my bed is much smaller and not as comfortable.”

“You are dismissed.” Again, the duke would not even glance in his direction.

McCoy gave a short nod as he left Spock’s room. As soon as he shut the door, closing himself off into his own minuscule, austere quarters, he leaned his head back and sighed. What a day. Only thirteen more in this hellhole to go.

“Come on, Bones. Play the game, Bones. This might be fun, Bones,” he murmured. He removed his own tie cloth, pulled off his coat and trousers and shirt. He left everything right where it dropped on the floor. He’d pick that up...later.

He went into the watercloset. Urinated, flushed, washed his hands then brushed his teeth. A bath in that tub could wait until tomorrow.

He threw on a nightgown and crawled into bed. Even though it squeaked every time he made a move on it, he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

**THE FIRST MORNING**

 

There was a hand on his back, shaking him awake. “Sir? Sir?”

“Mmmmm?” McCoy mumbled face down into the pillow. “What is it? Red alert?”

“It is time to get up, Sir.”

“Already? I just went to bed.” McCoy rolled over to find Williams standing over him. His eyes felt as if they had glass shards embedded in them. He’d been hoping the Regency Era shoreleave disaster had been nothing but a terrible dream. No such luck. “Time is it?” he asked.

“Half past four, Sir.”

McCoy grunted. “You gotta be kidding me.” Then he shivered. “It’s cold.”

“I just started your fire, Sir,” Williams replied.

McCoy sat up and squinted, noticed the blaze in the fireplace. He felt over on the nightstand for his spectacles. Everything was blurry without them. He would be reliant upon them now. He put them on and noticed the footman holding a candle. “Still dark out?”

“Of course, Sir. If you would be so kind as to dismiss me, I must attend to my duties downstairs.”

“Thank you, Williams. You may go.”

The footman used his candle to light another candle on McCoy’s nightstand before exiting, carefully closing the door. McCoy flopped back down on the bed, closed his eyes a moment, snuggled back underneath the duvet to rest for a few moments.

He blinked his eyes open and panicked. He’d fallen asleep again, with his spectacles on to boot. Luckily, he hadn’t damaged them. Any minute now he’d hear that blasted bell and the duke would be waiting and tapping his foot, tutting and glaring and trying to fire him again and he hadn’t even had a bath yet or any goddamned morning coffee and--

He glanced over at the clock. 5:00 am. Alright, so he’d only snoozed through another half hour. No big deal.

He sat up again and squinted from the sudden headache. Why did it feel as if he was so damned hung over? Hadn’t had that much to drink. Those damned liqueur infused chocolates. He got out of bed, set his spectacles down on the nightstand, yawned and scratched himself then staggered over to the bathroom.

Indoor plumbing wasn’t historically accurate, it was a downright cheat but right now this second he was most grateful for the Regent’s kind concession. Felt like writing the man a letter with that fancy quill pen, thanking him personally. He turned on the taps, waited for the tub to fill up. Man, it was freezing in here.

When the water reached a high enough level, he stripped off the nightgown and bloomers and got in. He lay back and relaxed a few moments, almost fell asleep again. The shaving accruements were located on a ledge over the tub, along with a mirror.

He mixed up the shaving creme, looking into the mirror to slather it on. Probably should have worn the spectacles in here. Well, he’d do the best he could under the circumstances.

He opened up the blade, then stropped it. Felt it with his thumb. Sharp. Alright. Here goes nothing. Now if he can accomplish shaving himself with a straight razor at 5 am and poor vision without slitting his own throat, that would be a huge accomplishment.

*

He looked around for the clothing that he’d left scattered on the floor before bed last night. The articles were nowhere to be found. Did the footman pick them up? Must have. He wondered if he could beam this footman back aboard the Enterprise to wait on him when shore leave was over with.

He went to the chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of bloomers, then a pair of knee breeches. His tail coat was hanging up.

No deodorant or anything like that available. Guess they didn’t have that in 1820. So he hoped nobody would smell any body odor later on. Maybe there was some perfume he could use instead. Maybe everybody stank in this time so his own odor would be less noticeable.

He stepped into his buckle shoes, tied his tie cloth into a bow, combed his hair, placed the spectacles on the end of his nose.

He noticed a cup of tea sitting on his nightstand. Wish he’d seen it before. He picked it up. Took a sip. It had gone ice cold. He put it back down and went over to his desk. He should do a quick personal log entry before that damned duke woke up and wanted his breakfast. He opened up his brand new leather bound diary. Dipped in the quill pen. And...

Wrote absolutely nothing. Couldn’t do it before morning coffee or tea, whichever. He needed some type of caffeine in him at any rate.

He went downstairs.

Janice Rand took one look at him in the knee breeches and began to snicker.

“Too early, Janice,” McCoy warned. “Not before my morning coffee.”

The other servants gathered around the long table for their breakfast.

Cook pointed at the plate of bacon and eggs and toast and mug with steam coming out of it. “For you, Luv,” she said to McCoy. “Nice and hot.”

“Smells delicious, my dear.” McCoy sat down at the head of the table, picked up his cup and drank that hot coffee like his life depended on it. He took a bite of that buttery toast. Mmmm.

The duke’s bell rang, summoning the footman. Leslie stood up.

“Sit down, Son,” McCoy said. “I’ll take his breakfast up. You finish eating.”

Leslie nodded and sat.

McCoy donned his white gloves as Cook lay plates upon silver platters which he in turn placed upon the silver tray. “Vegetarian omelet, water, toast, tea, fresh strawberries and cream,” Cook said. “I hope it is how the duke likes it.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

*

McCoy entered the duke’s bed chamber to find the fire going bright in the fireplace, the sun streaming through those stained glass windows and the Vulcan sitting down at that secretary desk, clad in only bloomers, maroon brocade robe and slippers. Spock was engrossed in the task of writing in his own leather bound journal with a white quill pen. Every few strokes, Spock had to dip the nib again into the ink.

McCoy brought the tray over and said in the most cheerful tone he could muster: “Good morning, My Lord.”

Spock glanced down at McCoy’s stockings, buckle shoes and knee breeches, then back up. “I was expecting the footman.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, My Lord, but he’s eating his breakfast. Growing young men. They do get hungry.”

Spock did not reply.

“Where would you like your breakfast, My Lord?” McCoy asked.

Spock moved his writing materials out of the way. “Here is fine.”

Lazy Vulcan didn’t want to get up from that desk. McCoy sighed then set the tray down in front of him. He took the cloth napkin, placed it into the duke’s lap. Poured out the tea. “Milk, My Lord?”

“Yes. A small amount.”

“Sugar?”

“No.”

“This morning breakfast consists of a vegetarian omelet, strawberries and cream, toast with butter.”

“I see that, McCoy.”

“Will there be anything else, My Lord?”

“You are dismissed for now, McCoy.” Spock picked up his fork.

*

McCoy went back down to his own breakfast, scarfing the rest of it down. Cook joined him at the table. “Sir, will the duke be expecting guests this afternoon?”

“I forgot to ask him, Cook, I’m sorry. He didn’t mention anything. However, he wasn’t very talkative this morning.”

“Ah, when you go back upstairs to dress him, you can ask. Just remember to pass the information along to the footman, so I can get started on preparations.”

“Alright.”

“He’s a quiet fellow, the duke, is he not?”

McCoy took another sip of his coffee. “Hmm.”

“Is he...always that way?”

“Not really. Not like this. I think--” McCoy huffed out a small rueful chuckle. “He’s just upset that he has to spend shore leave here. He’s playing this regency aristocratic character, very reluctantly. Don’t get me wrong this is a nice planet, but it’s not his idea of a good time.”

“Ah,” Cook said.

“Don’t take his mood personally.”

“I won’t. He does look rather dashing, however.”

McCoy grinned. “Maybe. Not as dashing as I look, though. Huh?”

Cook laughed. “No one looks as dashing as you do, Sir. Where are you from on Earth if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Georgia. In the old United States.”

“I see. Well, I can understand this planet and its ways can be rough on the newbies. Especially for someone like yourself, who uses fancy technology in their day to day lives. We get people here who come and play for a short time and you can see it in their eyes, they give it the old college try, they act their hearts out in their parts but they’re struggling. The simpler time, the hard work, staying in character as required. It takes a bit of time to get used to things. Myself, I’ve been here several years. I was in the Royal Shakespeare Company on Earth, before I moved here. I got my first part here as a scullery maid. Thought I’d go mad for a while, all those chores. But I then got the cook role and really started to enjoy it here. I don’t miss Earth and its technology one jot.”

“Well, sometimes, I too like to get away from it all. Depends on the situation, I suppose.”

“So you do like it here then, so far?”

McCoy shrugged. “I’d like it better if I could be a doctor, which is what I am in real life.”

“Oh yes. One of those.” Cook laughed.

“Well, at any rate, your cooking is delicious.”

“I do try, Sir. No sense in eating rubbish food for your shore leave!”

___________________  
on to next chapter


	5. Doctor, Butler, Barber

**DOCTOR, BUTLER, BARBER**

 

McCoy, flanked by Leslie the first footman, knocked on the door of the bed chamber.

“Come.”

They entered. The duke was still sitting at that desk. McCoy picked up the tray bearing the empty dishes, handed them over to Leslie before refreshing the Vulcan’s tea. “Are there any expected guests this afternoon, My Lord?”

“Yes, Jim will--” Spock cleared his throat and corrected himself. “Lord James will join me for chess at midday.”

“Anyone else, My Lord?”

“No.”

“Very Good. My Lord.” McCoy turned to the footman. “Leslie, inform Cook that we shall be expecting one guest for lunch this afternoon: Viscount Severin.”

Leslie nodded and exited.

“I’ll run your bath now, My Lord, if I may,” McCoy said.

Spock didn’t look at him, didn’t get up from the desk, but nodded.

McCoy went into the bathroom, brought out a large, white fluffy towel. He turned on the water taps, warmer than he would for himself. Hopefully the fussy duke would find the temperature within acceptable levels.

He exited the bathroom. The duke was still sat at the desk. “Your bath is ready for you, My Lord.” The duke didn’t acknowledge him. McCoy studied the Vulcan a moment, tilting his head. “My Lord?”

Again, Spock did not answer.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, McCoy?”

“My Lord, if I was your doctor at this point in time, I’d ask you how your stomach was feeling. You seem as if you might have a stomachache from all the rich food as of late.”

Spock turned his head sharply. “That is indeed a subject I might discuss with my doctor. Not with my butler.”

“I’m your valet, at this point in time. Unless you want me to hire you one.”

“Do not tempt me, McCoy. Having a proper valet attend me in my bed chamber might be a much more logical idea.”

“Oooh, My Lord. If thou wishest a valet, thou must have one. And a doctor as well. Unfortunately, the only doctors around here are into blood letting and leeches. Shall I find you one from the newspaper, My Lord? Perhaps if you lose enough blood volume, you might be cured of your ill humors.”

Spock stood up from the desk. “I have an upset stomach, if you must know.”

“Does My Lord want a hypo for his stomach ailment, or does My Lord wish to suffer with his affliction?”

“Ahhh, use of a hypo would be cheating, McCoy.”

“‘Tis allowable under certain conditions, My Lord.”

“I can refrain.”

“Are you sure?”

“Affira--” Spock corrected himself again. “Indeed.”

“Alright. Suit yourself. Bath is ready.”

Spock nodded. He walked past McCoy, then stopped short and turned back around. “What is that...smell?”

“Smell, My Lord?”

“That odor. What is it?”

“I don’t know--you mean, on me? My breath? Breakfast?”

“No...you...” Spock sniffed at him. “Smell--”

Oh no. “Body odor, already? I am sorry, My Lord. I did take a bath this morning, honest, but I’ve been--”

“Hush, McCoy, the odor is not offensive. It is pleasant.”

“Oh. Well. Are you attempting to say I smell good? Why, thank you.”

“What is that scent?”

“I don’t know.”

The duke came closer, sniffing him again. McCoy jerked his head back, resisting the urge to say: ‘Quit that, dammit!’.

“Your face,” Spock said.

“Oh. It’s shaving foam.” McCoy ran a hand along his cheek. “That must be what you’re smelling.”

“You shaved? With a razor?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“I noticed the straight razor in my bathroom. It appeared rather daunting. You know how to shave with a razor?”

“Obviously, since I’m not bleeding out from a million little cuts. As I said before, I have a lot of abilities and interests that you don’t know about.”

“I see.” Spock walked into the bathroom, McCoy following. The duke pulled off his robe, set it down on the chair then removed his bloomers, standing there completely nude.

McCoy glanced away. “I’ll be in the bed chamber. Call me if you need me.” He turned to go.

“I suppose,” Spock said, “using beard repressor is also considered cheating.”

McCoy halted at the doorway, turned around as the duke stepped gracefully into the tub. He tried to glance everywhere but Spock’s bare ass. “Well, yes, that’s what I figured, that’s why I used the razor.” He cleared his throat.

“Shaving? I have never...attempted it with this type of razor.”

McCoy walked back over to the tub. “I could shave you. This one time. I don’t mind.”

“I realize this is outside the official duties of a valet. It is more along the lines of a barber.”

“I’ll be right back. You just sit tight.”

McCoy went into the bed chamber, removed his tail coat and tie cloth, setting them on a chair. He unbuttoned his top few buttons of his linen shirt, down to the V-neck of the waistcoat. He rolled up his sleeves then returned to the bathroom. Spock glanced over, eyed his approach but suddenly looked away.

“I hope you don’t mind me appearing half dressed in your presence, My Lord. I didn’t want to get my coat all wet.”

“I see.”

McCoy brought the chair over, sitting down behind Spock’s head. He fetched the razor and the bowl. He mixed up the shaving creme, then tilted Spock’s head back, slathering the foam on the Vulcan’s face.

The duke seemed finally relaxed, eyes were closed. Goddamn, he looked absolutely beautiful like that.

McCoy swallowed and tried to focus on his task at hand, shaving the duke. He whispered: “Once upon a time on Earth, surgeons also served as dentists and barbers. So essentially, a doctor could shave you, cut your hair, pull out your teeth, take out an organ without anesthesia, all in one location: The barber shop. Isn’t that convenient. That’s why the barber pole was striped red and white. It represented the bloody bandages.”

“It did not,” Spock protested, opening one eye.

“Check your records if you don’t believe me. Don’t argue with your barber when he has a blade at your throat, My Lord. Don’t want me to slip, do you? Still want your starfleet points? Or would you prefer an old style sideburn?”

“Leave them in points for now.”

“You sure? Starfleet hasn’t been invented yet.”

Spock huffed and said nothing.

McCoy took a wet, warm towel, put it against Spock’s face, wiping off the rest of the shaving foam. “All done, My Lord.”

“Thank you.”

*

McCoy held out the large fluffy towel, putting it around the duke’s nude waist as he got out of the tub. With another smaller towel, he commenced drying the duke’s hair.

He handed over a fresh pair of bloomers. He turned around while the Vulcan removed his towel and donned them. He then took the damp towel and dirty bloomers and put them into the laundry chute for the maid to deal with.

Spock went into his bedchamber and donned yellow knee breeches, stockings, and a cream colored linen shirt. McCoy fastened the duke’s cufflinks at his wrists, buttoned the ecru linen shirt up to the neck, tied the matching neck cloth around the duke’s neck.

“Which color day-coat, My Lord?”

“The green one.”

McCoy brought out the double breasted dark green tails, then handed over the duke’s brown boots he so favored.

Spock’s damp black bangs were sticking up, every which way. “May I comb your hair, before it dries like that, My Lord?” McCoy offered.

The Vulcan nodded.

McCoy combed the duke’s hair down the way the Spock preferred it, but the bangs still separated. “How do you get it looking so perfect?”

“I use product in it. Setting spray.”

“Well, we don’t have such new fandangled things in 1820.”

“Obviously.”

“Well. Looks good enough,” McCoy said. “You’re not going to a fashion show.”

 

**VISCOUNT LUNCHEON**

 

At midday, Viscount Severin’s carriage pulled up. Leslie opened up the door.

Lady Christine clambered out first.

McCoy raised an eyebrow in surprise but immediately stepped forward to help her down. “Forgive me, My Lady, I was not aware that you would also be attending today’s lunch date with the duke.”

Lord James jumped out behind her. “Christine decided to tag along. At the last minute.”

McCoy gave his best charming smile to Lady Christine, who looked exquisite in her linen, empire waisted dress, her blonde hair secured into a white bonnet. However the noblewoman seemed downright unhappy. “You are most welcome at the duke’s abode, My Lady.”

Lady Christine flashed a small, sad smile back at McCoy. “Thank you.”

“After you, My Lord, My Lady.” McCoy waved them into the house. Leslie shut the carriage door.

Lord James smirked as he walked past McCoy. “Nice breeches.”

“I do believe it is proper butler attire, My Lord.”

“I know,” Lord James replied. “They sure are tight.”

McCoy closed the front door behind them as they entered the entry hall. “Care for a drink, My Lord, My Lady?”

“Brandy,” Lord James said.

“Anything for you, My Lady?” McCoy asked.

Lady Christine shook her head.

McCoy left them alone, went into the kitchen. Leslie had somehow disappeared. Drinks in the entry hall were supposed to be delivered by the footman. He spotted Janice Rand rushing back and forth. “Where did Leslie go?” he asked.

“I don’t know!” Janice shrieked out. “We’re trying to get lunch ready!”

“Janice!” Cook bellowed out. The maid took off running.

“Be careful!” McCoy said. “You’re gonna--Forget it.” He donned his white gloves, went to the brandy, poured one out into a crystal snifter then set it on a tray.

He brought the brandy out. “Your drink, My Lord.”

“He makes an adorable waiter, doesn’t he, Christine?” Lord James said.

“Sure,” Lady Christine replied.

“I’ll let the duke know you’re here,” McCoy told them.

“Doesn’t the duke already know?” Lord James said.

McCoy rolled his eyes as he bowed his way out.

 

**LIKE A COKE**

 

In the dining room, Leslie and Williams were setting the table for lunch. McCoy nodded at them then went to the kitchen.

“Almost ready,” Cook told him as she rushed past. “Two minutes.”

“Anything I can do to help?” McCoy asked her.

“No! Got it under control, Sir!”

McCoy turned around to find Lady Christine standing behind him. “Everything alright, My Lady?”

She nodded, but didn’t seem very convincing. “So this is your kitchen. It’s larger than ours.”

“Would you like a drink, My Lady? We have wine, brandy, whisky, rum, gin, juice, tea, coffee, anything you’d like.”

“How about some soda? A soft drink without any booze in it would be nice.”

McCoy grinned. “You mean, like a Coke?”

“Yeah. I’d kill for a one, right now.”

“Coke wasn’t invented yet, My Lady.”

Lady Christine glanced over at the servants rushing around. “Is it always like this in your kitchen?”

“A madhouse? Yes.”

“Oh.”

“My Lady, I could fix you a Coke, if you wanted. Wouldn’t be the official brand, but I could get close to it. I have some caramel syrup and soda water in the pantry. May I escort you back to the parlor? I’ll have a footman bring your drink out to you.” McCoy motioned at Leslie who was now standing next to him at attention.

“Leslie sure looks cute,” Lady Christine said.

McCoy looked over at the footman, who shrugged at him. “Yes. Our shrugging footman. Looks real cute.” He turned back to the lady. “Here, I’ll escort you to the parlor, My Lady.”

“No. I don’t want to go back in there. James and uh...the duke are in there, talking.”

“Yes,” McCoy said. “But, don’t you--?”

“I’ll wait right here.”

“Lunch will be ready soon.”

“That’s fine.”

“Sure everything is alright, My Lady?”

“Uh huh,” she said.

“Lunch is ready, Sir!” Cook called over to him. “Janice, dish up the food, please!”

“Yes, Cook!”

“My Lady, I have to announce the meal to the duke and viscount. I’ll meet you in the dining room,” McCoy said to Lady Christine.

“Hey, can I eat with you guys?” she asked.

“Eat with us servants?”

“Yes,” she said.

McCoy shook his head. “My Lady, you don’t want to eat with us. Trust me. The servants don’t eat until much later. I’m sure you’re hungry right now. Your lunch is ready. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

“Fine. I’ll eat in the dining room.”

“Excuse me, My Lady.” McCoy bowed to her then walked out of the kitchen.

He entered the front parlor to find the duke and the viscount sitting on the sofa.

Lord James chuckled and said to Spock in a stage whisper: “Christine’s just upset because she wanted to be ‘married’ to you instead of me. I told her to get in line. Lots of ladies are after the Duke of Cambridge. That Countess of Blessington sure took a liking to you, last night, along with Madame Recamier.”

“Madame Recamier seemed to prefer you, James.”

“Mmmm,” Lord James replied. “Madame Racamier is sexy, isn’t she. Ample breasts spilling out of her nearly see through dress. I can’t wait to pay her a visit in her boudoir.”

Spock glanced up.

McCoy met his eyes a moment, before clearing his throat. “My Lords, lunch is served.”

Spock stood. “Thank you, McCoy.”

McCoy bowed, turned on his heel and walked out. He heard Lord James say: “I want your butler for myself. Can I have him?”

“No.”

*

As the footmen served lunch, McCoy brought out Lady Christine’s drink. “Your Coke, My Lady. Apologies for the delay.”

That made her genuinely smile. “Thank you.”

He bowed. “You’re most welcome.”

Lord James snapped his fingers. “I’ll have another brandy, Butler.”

*

While the guests tucked into their lunch, McCoy went into the library and set up the chess game. The board and pieces were an exquisite marble affair. He wondered when was the last time those two played on a 2-D set like this. Spock would be black. Spock always liked being black, no matter where they played. McCoy knew that for certain.

The duke and viscount entered the library. McCoy bowed and exited, leaving the two aristocrats to their game.

He entered the front parlor to collect any empty glasses and plates. Lady Christine was sitting on the sofa, alone. “May I bring you anything, My Lady?”

She shook her head.

He exited, deposited the empty glasses in the kitchen for the scullery maid to wash.

He back went into the library. The the duke and the viscount were so involved in their chess match that neither of them looked up. McCoy picked up a deck of cards from the bookshelf then exited.

He went back into the front parlor. He took hold of Lady Christine’s arm, led her over to a large square table and sat her down in a chair. He held up the deck of cards. “Hope you got some money to lose in that reticule of yours, My Lady.” He began to shuffle out seven card stud.

“Have they invented poker, yet?” she asked.

“Don’t know, My Lady. Don’t care, at this point.”

“Chartreuse,” Lady Christine said, suddenly.

That was the safe word. “What’s going on, Christine?”

She sighed. “I want to go back to the ship, Doctor.”

“You’re not having fun here?”

“Does it look like I am?”

“Not really. For that matter, I don’t think any of us are.”

“The captain sure is.”

“Tell me. What’s going on? I notice some frost between you two.”

“He...” Christine frowned and looked down at her cards. “Just ignores me.”

“Ignores you? That doesn’t sound like the captain.”

“We’re supposed to be a married couple, right? But all he’s been doing is flirting with the pretty chamber maid, the scullery maid, the ladies at the opera and the theatre. He acts like I’m not even there. Invisible.”

“Well, your marriage isn’t real, you know that. He knows that. You’re just pretending.”

“Yeah, well, the hurt is real. He could at least acknowledge my presence once in awhile. Looks bored when has to have breakfast with me. He can’t wait to take off for the evening.”

“Hey, Christine, you don’t have to answer this, but, are you attracted to the captain?”

“No way. He’s no Spock, is he. Not as dashing. I mean...have you seen Spock? My goodness. That green suit he’s wearing--”

“Yes. Remember, I’m his butler.”

“Yes. Anyway, Doctor, I just don’t like being ignored.”

“I understand, Christine. And...I’ve noticed Jim’s rudeness. I’ll have a talk with him or I’ll ask Spock to knock some sense into him. He needs to tone down his behavior...I can picture things getting out of hand.”

“I suppose we should drop back into character, now.”

McCoy grabbed her hand. “Do you still want to beam back to the ship?”

“No. I guess I’ll stick it out here for the rest of shore leave.”

“Listen, Christine. If you want to go back at any time, just say the safe word, tell the captain. Or come here to our house. Spock will handle it. Or even I will.”

Christine looked at him. “Are those glasses real?”

“Yes, they are. I’m usually on Retinax Five.”

“And you decided to quit taking it?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you like being Spock’s butler?”

McCoy shrugged. “It’s alright. Waiting on him, hand and foot. He’s kind of a pain in the ass. I’m not used to things being that way, so unequal between us.”

“He makes you wait on him?”

“Well, he doesn’t make me. He is playing a role--so am I. But...he seems to be immersed in the part. He appears to really enjoy being catered to. More so than I thought he would.”

“Hmm,” Christine said. “Isn’t he an aristocrat in real life?”

“Who, Spock?” McCoy asked. Christine nodded. “Is he? Hell, I don’t know.”

“He’s the Vulcan equivalent to a prince,” she replied.

“No kidding.”

“Um hum.”

“Well, no wonder.”

 

**EVENING**

 

After Lord and Lady Severin had left and Spock had eaten his dinner alone in his bedchamber, it had been quiet for awhile.

McCoy decided to go check up on the duke. He knocked on the door of the bed chamber. No answer. He cracked open the door. Nobody in there. Odd. Spock was supposed to be in here.

McCoy entered, glanced around then went over to the duke’s bathroom.

He found the duke, sitting on the toilet, reading what appeared to be a newspaper. Oops. McCoy halted, tried to turn around.

Too late, the duke already had spotted him. “What are you doing in here?”

“My apologies. I was trying to find out if you needed anything,” McCoy replied. “I didn’t realize you were on--”

“You could have knocked.”

“I did, you didn’t answer, my Lord. I’ll wait in there.” He moved away from the bathroom, waiting politely near the desk. That was the drawback of being an aristocrat in 1820, no real privacy.

Eventually, the duke flushed the toilet, came out of the bathroom in his bloomers and robe. “McCoy.”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“I am to attend a ball tonight at the invitation of the Regent.”

“Ah. Tuxedo?”

“Yes, but first....” Spock hesitated. “You mentioned a hypo for a stomach ailment.”

McCoy grinned. “Couldn’t stand the diarrhea any longer, huh?” He walked over to his bedroom, through the adjoining door, waving the Vulcan inside. “Step right this way.”

Spock entered McCoy’s bedroom. He glanced around. “Hmm.”

“Not as palatial as your accommodations, are they, My Lord. We can’t all have luxurious four poster beds.” McCoy knelt down, slid out his suitcase from underneath his bed, opened it and found his medi-kit. He fished out a hypo, found an appropriate vial that would do the trick. He scanned Spock with the type II first, just to make sure it wasn’t anything else causing his symptoms. The hypo hissed as he pressed it against Spock’s wrist. “There. That should take care of it.”

“Or make it worse, as many of your potions tend to do.”

“Then why in the hell did you ask for my help, anyway?” McCoy knelt down and pushed the suitcase back under the bed.

“McCoy, I did not utter the safe word.”

McCoy stood up and did a low exaggerated bow. “I apologize for my outburst, My Lord.”

The duke sighed and walked back into his bedchamber. “The hour grows late.”

“Fine.” McCoy quickly helped the duke dress in black knee breeches, white frilly shirt, cufflinks, boots, white tie cloth, black velvet tails.

“The ball is at Buckingham House,” the duke informed him. “There is a dress code which requires I wear the contents of that box.” Spock pointed at a glass display case on his dresser.

McCoy went over, opened the box. He drew out a jeweled star badge with a red cross in the center, a blue sash and a medal on a red ribbon. “What are these?”

“That is the ‘Order of the Companions of Honor’. Awarded to those of national importance in science. And that,” Spock pointed to the badge, “Is the Royal Victorian Order.”

“They’re heavy. How are they worn?”

“The blue sash is worn from the right shoulder. The star is worn on the left side of the chest. The medal is worn around the neck.”

“The prince regent awarded these to you?”

“He did. Being as I am third in line to the throne.”

McCoy smirked. Look at Spock, staying in character. “I see.” He had to admit, Spock looked damned good in his tuxedo, star badge, blue sash and medal. “The ladies should love you.”

“You think so?”

“Mmmm,” McCoy said. “You look beautiful. Is there to be anything else, My Lord?” McCoy walked to the door, rubbing his hands together. Fantastic. With the duke gone for the next few hours, he could catch a nap. Have a drink. Finish his dinner. Relax.

“There is something else, McCoy. I will require you to accompany me to the ball tonight.”

McCoy spun around. “Me? What about Leslie and Kyle?”

“I am concerned with Leslie’s competence in such matters as attending me while out on the town and tonight will be Kyle’s first solo attempt at the reins.”

“Kyle’s driving the coach alone? God help us.”

____________________

on to next chapter


	6. Balls

**BALLS**

 

The carriage hit a hard bump on the cobblestone street. McCoy leaned out the window. “Kyle!”

“Sorry, Sir! Still getting the hang of this thing.”

“My God, the man nearly tipped this goddamned coach over,” McCoy huffed as he sat back.

Sitting across from him, Spock raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how to drive a carriage, McCoy?”

“I can drive a team but, I’m not doing the coachman’s job, thank you very much.” He did bring a book to read and a flask of brandy to bide the time while the duke was enjoying himself at the ball.

McCoy was silent for a few moments before he said: “My Lord?”

“Yes, McCoy?”

“Since this is a ball and I assume you will be participating in the social dances of the evening, will Lord and Lady Severin be attending?”

“Of course.”

“Do me a favor, My Lord, and dance with Lady Christine.”

“Why?” Spock said. “Lord James will dance with her.”

McCoy shifted in his seat. “You see the thing is...I don’t think Lord James wants to dance with Lady Christine.”

“Why not?”

“Lord James is not interested in Lady Christine. Lord James is interested in every other lady in the realm BUT Lady Christine. You catch my drift?”

“I have promised another lady the first two dances,” the duke protested.

“Oh? Who?”

“The Countess of Blessington.”

“You don’t have to dance with the Countess of Blessington all night, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“Well, then, dance one dance with Lady Christine. I’m sure she would be eternally grateful. And so would I.”

Spock sighed. “I am certain my action would be unnecessary. Lord James will dance with his Lady.”

“You know damned well he won’t,” McCoy hissed. “Not based on what I’ve seen and heard.”

Spock cleared his throat. “McCoy you indulge in gossip entirely too much.”

The coach hit another huge, back breaking bump. McCoy yelled out of the window again: “Kyle!”

“Sorry, Sir!”

*

The coach came to a sudden, lurching halt at the carriage entrance of Buckingham House, pushing both Spock and McCoy forward in their seats.

McCoy sighed, grateful they’d arrived in one piece. He opened the door, got out and waited until the duke disembarked, stepping down and moving away before shutting it.

He placed the top hat upon Spock’s head, tugged on the duke’s coat and tails, straightened Spock’s tie cloth, medal and sash.

Spock took a deep breath. If McCoy hadn’t known Spock better, he might have thought the Vulcan was nervous.

“Have fun, My Lord,” McCoy said.

Spock eyed him a moment then turned and walked up to the entrance.

McCoy watched the duke disappear then went over to Kyle. “Carriage parking is over there.”

Kyle still looked very uncomfortable holding the reins. “Ah.”

“You alright, Kyle?”

“Uh, I think so, Sir.”

McCoy climbed up into the front, slid in next to the coachman, sat down. “You’re holding the reins too tightly, for one.”

Kyle gave him a glance. “Oh. I see, Sir.”

“Here. Want me to take over?”

Kyle handed him the reins.

McCoy clicked under his breath for the horses to begin their walk. “See? Don’t pull back on them, unless you want them to stop short, that makes for a jerky ride. Don’t have to yell out commands either, just a ‘woah’ under your breath or pull back softly. Seems to be universal for horses. Steer them, like this, they’ll know you want to go that way. Gently, don’t jerk it.”

Kyle smiled. “I’ve been doing it all wrong.”

“No, no, no. Just takes practice.”

They rolled into the carriage parking. McCoy halted the horses. He leaned back in the seat. “So we’re supposed to just... hang around here for the evening?”

Kyle glanced around. “Looks like it, Sir.”

“Don’t the horses have any hay to eat or water or somethin’?”

Kyle shrugged.

McCoy looked over, there were many servants in lively milling around. The footmen and coachmen in the next carriage over were laughing and talking, smoking what appeared to be tobacco cigarettes or maybe something stronger. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his flask, motioned to Kyle. “Here.”

Kyle made a grateful noise, took the flask, had a sip and handed it back.

As McCoy took his own sip of brandy, he heard the sound of a dull thud of footsteps in the dirt and a voice next to them. “Hey, I know these two!”

McCoy glanced down. “Chekov! Hey! How’s it going?”

“It’s alright.” Chekov shrugged. “But I’d rather be in there, dancing.” He pointed.

They watched as continuous throng of handsome lords and beautiful ladies made their way inside. “Join the club, Chekov,” McCoy muttered. He got down out of the carriage, landing on the dirt next to the other butler. He held up his flask. “Want some?”

“Vat is it?”

“Brandy.”

Chekov wrinkled up his nose. “I brought my own. Vodka.”

“Of course you did,” McCoy said. “Smart man.”

Chekov reached into his red coat and brought out a deck of cards. “I also brought these.”

“Goddamn, Chekov!” McCoy put his arm around the man. “You are a genius.”

*

McCoy, Chekov, Kyle and Lemli (who’d showed up a little later), played poker for the next couple of hours, until Lemli announced he had to go take a piss.

Chekov gathered up the cards.

“Maybe I’ll go take a walk,” McCoy said.

“I’ll join you,” Chekov replied.

 

**LOTS OF LOVELY LADIES**

 

They could see the ball going on through the huge bay windows.

“Lots of lovely ladies,” Chekov said with a sad tone.

“Hmm,” McCoy replied. He caught sight of Spock, dancing with...some lady, he didn’t recognize her. Was that the Countess of Blessington? Then the dance ended and there was another line up. Spock was there, lining up to dance with that same lady. McCoy then glanced to the other side and noted Lady Uhura and Scotty--Lord Montgomery were huddled and whispering together.

“It’s vierd not being able to call you ‘Doctor’,” Chekov said.

“Tell me about it,” McCoy quipped. They fell silent, before McCoy asked: “So, how’s the lady of your house doing?”

“Ummm, Lady Nyota and Mr. Scott--I mean the Earl of Perth--are an item.”

“Really?” McCoy smiled. “Hey, that sounds nice.”

“Yes...Lord Scotty has been courting her most...gallantly.”

“‘Lord Scotty’?” McCoy asked.

“Vat’s what he prefers to be called.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves,” McCoy said.

“Vat about you? How is Spock?”

“He’s uh...he’s fine.”

“He is quite popular.”

McCoy watched a moment. How did Spock know how to dance so well? The Vulcan was taking to it like a duck to water, like he’d been born to do it. “I can see that, Chekov.”

“I wish I was in there.”

“I know,” McCoy said.

“Some of the ladies,” Chekov said. “their breasts are spilling out of the top of their dresses.” Chekov mimed the action. “Big ones.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“No? I sure did.”

McCoy took his flask out of his coat, had what was left of his brandy. Chekov did the same with his vodka.

They watched in silence for the next half hour as Spock danced with three other ladies. And the duke looked damned good doing it.

McCoy cleared his throat. “Hey, Chekov, I’m gonna head inside. I have to use the watercloset.”

“The vot?”

“The bathroom.” McCoy motioned. “Y’know?”

“Oh.” Chekov pointed behind him. “There’s an outhouse for the servants, over there.”

“I’m not using any goddamned outhouse. I’m going inside the ballroom.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed in there.”

“What are they gonna do, have me arrested for using the bathroom?”

“Maybe.”

“You comin’?” McCoy asked.

“No.”

“Don’t you have to pee, Chekov? You’ve been drinkin’ half the night.”

“I can hold it.”

“Just think of what that’s doing to your bladder.”

Chekov shrugged.

McCoy walked away from him, went up into the palace, through the main doors and into the ballroom.

He was, thankfully, ignored by any of the assembled ball goers. Good. He only really wanted to use the facilities and get the hell out of here.

There was all kinds of flirting going on around him, witty repartee, courting by both same sex and opposite sex couples, giggles, laughter, teasing, lots of food, sweets, drink. Sure looked fun. He wondered if these folks were free from disease, used protection during their couplings, unlike those poor folks in the real 1820. Or maybe not, as the doctors on this planet were apparently just as barbaric as the real ones in that era. He shuddered at the thought, yet again.

There seemed to be another dance line up. McCoy glanced around and noticed Spock lining up with...Lady Christine. Excellent. He wished he could stay and watch them dance together but he did have to really use the water closet. He was about ready to piss his damned pants. He edged to the side of the huge ballroom, found the corridor where the bathroom should be.

Once he entered the corridor he was stopped by a man clad in livery. “Sir. The facilities are for guests only.”

“I’m a guest,” McCoy told him.

The man looked him up and down. “The servants closet is outside. The outhouse is near the carriage parking.”

“What are you, a footman?” McCoy walked around the man.

“Ah...Sir? Pardon me, Sir?” The footman didn’t follow, thank goodness.

McCoy entered the mens room, went to a urinal. He could hear the faint sounds of music as he fished himself out of the pants and trousers, still a huge pain in the ass. Finally he was able to go pee. What a relief.

A man entered the bathroom and walked up to the urinal next to him.

McCoy felt eyes boring into him, so ventured a glance over. The man, obviously some kind of a lord, was staring at his dick and smiling, masturbating himself. Then those creepy, lust filled eyes moved from McCoy’s genitals to meet his gaze.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” McCoy hissed.

“I’d rather suck it. Can I?”

McCoy fastened himself up, flushed and stepped away from the urinal. “No thanks. Creep.”

He went over to the sink and washed his hands. He heard an: “Awww, you’re no fun,” behind him as he exited the bathroom.

He went back through the corridor, to the ballroom. Spock was still dancing with Lady Christine. McCoy stopped, leaned against the wall to watch.

The dance was over, Spock leaned over to say something to her, and they lined up again. He didn’t see Lord James anywhere. He scanned around the room, finally spotting the viscount. Talking to some other lady. Of course.

McCoy glanced over at the refreshment table, inched his way over there. Food looked good.

There was a footman standing guard. McCoy glanced away. S’pose he’d get himself kicked out of here if he dared sample anything. Probably filled with food born pathogens anyway. Maybe. He’d get himself some food poisoning before he knew it and then--

Suddenly, another footman moved into his line of vision. “Can I bring you something, Sir?”

“Uh...no...I was just...uh...”

“Some brandy? A glass?”

“Sure. That would be nice. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The footman went over, poured out some drink into a crystal snifter. The man selected several sweets and put them on a plate then brought all of it over on a silver tray. “Here you are, Sir. Enjoy.”

McCoy smiled as he took the plate and glass from the footman. “Thank you.”

“You’re in the Duke of Cambridge’s household, aren’t you?” the footman said.

“Yes. I’m the duke’s butler.”

“That’s right.” The footman glanced over to the dancing Spock, then back. “The duke is quite popular with the ladies.”

McCoy took a sip of the brandy. “Sure is.”

“He’ll be married soon, I expect.”

McCoy chuckled. “Oh...well...I don’t know about that.”

“Hmm. Word has it that the duke is most entranced with the Countess of Blessington.”

“Oh?”

“They’re to be engaged to be married soon.”

McCoy whipped his head around. “The Duke of Cambridge?”

“Mmm hum.”

“Well, you know,” McCoy told the man, “people can talk, but doesn’t make it true.” At any rate, it wasn’t real. Spock was only here for two weeks. He wouldn’t suddenly marry anybody, a woman he barely knew, would he?

“He could not have made a better selection,” the footman said. “The countess is quite the beauty. Well versed in music and the womanly arts.”

“What the devil are the womanly arts? Medicine and physics?”

“Uh, no,” the footman said. “Needlepoint, knitting, looking after babies. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, right. Only women do needlepoint or knit, or look after babies.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“I’ve never heard of a man doing needlepoint or knitting or looking after babies. We only make the babies.” The footman laughed. “Knitting sounds preposterous.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“Well, any road, the lovely Countess of Blessington is more than a match for the Duke of Cambridge. It’s in all the papers.”

“The newspaper?”

“Of course. Right on the front page.”

McCoy handed the plate and glass back to the footman. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You don’t want any more?”

“I have to get back to my carriage. The duke will probably want to head on home soon.”

“Or he’ll want to go to Hyde Park, with the countess,” the footman said with a chuckle. “Then you’ll have to pretend nothing’s going on. Ignore her little cries as he--”

McCoy coughed into his hand. “Sure. Well, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As McCoy wound his way through the crowd, he glanced over and noticed Spock talking to that same lady he’d danced with before. Had to be the Countess of Blessington. Well, maybe the footman had been right, Spock did seem rather taken with her. But marriage?

He exited the ballroom, went out to the carriage parking area.

He found Kyle reclined in the driver’s seat, taking a nap. How that position was comfortable, he didn’t know. Man would probably have severe neck strain when he woke up.

McCoy folded his arms against the coach and leaned back, waiting.

*

A giggle woke McCoy out of his stupor.

Spock was striding up to the carriage. There was a woman holding onto his arm. McCoy straightened up.

The woman squealed again as they drew closer.

McCoy bowed low to the woman, then opened up the carriage door. “Good evening, My Lady.”

“Hmph,” the lady said. McCoy took her arm and helped her into the coach.

“That,” Spock said, “is none other than the Countess of Blessington.”

“Ah yes, of course,” McCoy said. “Where to, My Lord?”

“The countess lives at 81 Grosvenor Square, conveniently across from my own home. I suggested she and I share a carriage. I shall see her to her abode first.”

“Very good.” McCoy dropped his voice down to a whisper. “Are you sure you don’t you want to take the lady to Hyde Park?”

Spock gave him a warning look.

“I’ll ride up front with Kyle,” McCoy said.

*

McCoy halted the carriage in front of 81 Grosvenor Square. He elbowed the snoring coachman. “Kyle, hold the reins.”

“Huh?” Kyle opened his eyes, had no idea where the hell he was. He sat up. “Oh!”

McCoy shook his head, jumped down out of the driver’s seat. He opened the carriage door. Spock got out, then helped the countess out of the carriage.

“Good evening, My Lady.” McCoy bowed.

“Hmph,” the countess replied.

Spock held out his arm. “I shall see you to the door, Margaret.”

The countess giggled. “Ohhhh, you!”

The pair walked off, towards the countess’ home. McCoy rolled his eyes.

He waited next to the carriage for what seemed like an eternity. He shifted his stance. These shoes were starting to cut into his feet, it had been a long night. He leaned his head back against the coach.

Kyle whispered down to him. “How much longer do you think he’ll be, Sir? I have to use the loo.”

“Hell if I know.”

Finally, Spock strode up to the coach and went inside.

“Kyle, take us home,” McCoy said to the coachman.

He got in, shut the door and fluffed out his tails as he sat down across from the duke. The coach moved forward with a jerk.

“Well,” McCoy quipped. “You certainly were popular, My Lord. Dancing with every eligible lady in the realm. Never knew you were such a hoofer.”

Spock looked out of the window. “Why, McCoy, any savage can dance.”

“The Countess of Blessington, huh? How many times did you dance with her, five? Ten? Tongues are waggling. Apparently you’re about to be engaged. It’s in all the papers.”

“Enough,” Spock hissed.

McCoy quieted until they reached the house.

 

**ICE CREAM AND KISSES**

 

In the duke’s bedchamber, McCoy helped the silent, brooding, snappish nobleman out of his attire. Goddamn Vulcan seemed to be in some kind of a snit.

McCoy attempted to lighten things up by asking: “I know it’s late, but Cook has fixed some vanilla ice-cream, if you haven’t consumed enough sweets for the evening, would you--?”

“Yes.”

Didn't have to ask him twice. “Very good. I shall return in a moment with My Lord’s ice-cream.” McCoy bowed in a most exaggerated fashion and went downstairs.

He donned his white gloves in the kitchen, got the ice-cream from Cook (finally she was able to turn in for the night after that, poor dear) then went back up the main staircase with the silver tray.

He entered the bedchamber to find Spock in his bloomers, robe, slippers and nothing else, sitting at that desk and writing in his journal.

“Where would you like to consume your ice-cream, My Lord?”

“At my desk,” Spock said absently.

McCoy set it down in front of him. “What time do you wish to arise on the morrow?”

“Six am.”

“Bright and early huh, My Lord?” That would mean only four hours sleep for himself.

“If there is a problem, McCoy, Williams can act as my valet and butler from here on out.”

“No, there isn’t a problem. Trying to fire me, huh? Not very nice, My Lord. Uh...don’t forget to brush your teeth after your ice-cream.”

“You are dismissed.” There was a beat, then Spock added: “For the evening.”

“Thank you. Are there any guests expected tomorrow?”

“The Countess of Blessington will join me for lunch.”

“Oh. If you would have informed me earlier regarding your luncheon plans, I could have warned Cook.”

“I am certain Cook can accommodate us.”

“Yes, but it’s--never mind. I’m heading to bed. If you require anything else, My Lord, you do know where to find me. Goodnight.” McCoy sighed and exited into his own room, shutting the door.

He removed his white gloves and his tails, hung them up got out of the rest of his heavy clothing. Finally he was able to get out of those tiny torture devices known as buckle shoes. Goddamn he didn’t think he’d miss his Enterprise boots this much.

He donned his own robe and slippers and removed his spectacles.

He hesitated then put them back on.

Something was amiss about that damned Vulcan. Wait a minute--

He hurried over to the adjoining door and knocked softly.

“Come in,” Spock called out.

McCoy opened the door. The duke, now sitting on his bed, looked over, did a double take at him. “Yes, McCoy?”

“Forgive me for my state of undress,” McCoy said, looking down and realizing he hadn’t closed his robe and his bare chest was exposed. He grabbed the still lit candle, came closer.

“What is it you wish?”

McCoy leaned in to get an even better look. “There’s some residual lipstick on your mouth and cheek, My Lord.”

Spock brought his hand to his face and made an attempt to rub it away. “Is there?”

“Yes, allow me.” McCoy set down the candle on Spock’s nightstand. He went to the bathroom, got a towel, wet it, then brought it back. He sat down on the bed. “May I?” The duke nodded. McCoy wiped the stain away. “There.”

“How terribly untidy,” Spock whispered.

“Nobody noticed, I’m sure.”

“The other servants, for certain.”

“Well. I didn’t until too late. It’s my fault, I apologize. I let you out of the carriage like that.”

Spock stared again at McCoy’s chest, exposed bloomers, then back into his eyes.

McCoy cleared his throat, stood up from the bed. “Does your stomach feel better, My Lord? No more upset?”

“The symptoms are eradicated. Thank you, McCoy.”

McCoy toyed with the towel, then glanced over and saw the empty ice cream dish. “I’ll clear that for you. Goodnight, My Lord. Sleep well.”

 

**THAT WOMAN**

 

Nobody could be more annoying, more shrill, more vulgar than the lady who’d arrived for luncheon at noon: The Countess of Blessington.

McCoy shuddered.

Nobody in the realm possessed worse table manners than the Countess of Blessington. Slurping her soup. Breasts spilling out of her dress. The lady chewing her food and endless chocolates with her mouth open, licking her fingers as she did so. Her conversation was at best, superficial. Her jokes falling flat.

Laughing like a hyena. Cackling like a Shakespearian witch.

She kept putting her hands on the duke. Rubbing his body. Kissing him on the cheek. Sliding her arms around him. Giggling into his pointed ear. Pushing her breasts against him. Playing with his hair.

And Spock let her do it.

McCoy rolled his eyes. The woman was no match for the Duke of Cambridge.

The duke seemed to be quite taken with the lady, nevertheless.

And that’s what mattered though, right? What Lord Spock thought of her. Though he couldn’t imagine why Spock even bothered with her and needless to say, the papers were wrong. The duke would never marry anyone like the Countess of Blessington. Not in a million years.

When the luncheon date ended and the countess finally let go of nibbling on Spock long enough to be able to climb into her carriage and get the hell out of here, McCoy breathed out a sigh of relief.

Hopefully that would be the last they ever saw of that countess.

*

The duke had gone out for dinner that evening and had yet to return home.

McCoy set down his quill pen and journal and looked over at the clock. Past midnight. Lord Spock hadn’t even said where he was going, just that he was out for dinner.

It was two am when McCoy finally turned in. The duke was still glaringly absent.

McCoy didn’t sleep well at all.

The duke’s carriage arrived. McCoy straightened up his tail coat and hurried to the entry hall. Leslie came running up seconds later to open the door.

The duke came strolling in. McCoy glanced over at the clock. 11:05am. “Good morning, My Lord.” The duke’s evening coat was out of place in the morning light.

He took the duke’s top hat and handed it over to Leslie.

McCoy fell in step and followed behind as Spock went up the grand staircase to his bedchamber.

Once inside, McCoy helped the duke out of his tails. “Do you wish to go to bed, My Lord?”

Spock threw him a sharp glance.

“To sleep for a few hours. You look exhausted. Long night?”

“No.”

“How about a bath?”

Spock nodded.

“Very good, My Lord. A moment and I shall return.” When the bathroom was all ready, he entered the bedchamber. “Would you like me to shave you, My Lord?”

Spock hesitated before he nodded again.

McCoy went in again, set up the tools. He mixed up the foam in the bowl.

Spock was in his robe and bloomers again, when McCoy came out of the bathroom to announce: “All ready for you, My Lord.”

Spock discarded his robe and entered the bathroom, completely nude. McCoy stole a quick glance, before catching Spock’s eyes. He looked away.

Spock stepped into the tub, sat down. McCoy tilted the duke’s head back and shaved him in complete silence. After he finished, he brought a warm, wet towel to the duke’s face.

Spock seemed almost in a stupor.

“Uh, My Lord...is...everything alright?”

Spock nodded.

“Anything else you want help with? Want me to wash your hair?”

Spock turned his head to stare at McCoy. “That is not required of a valet.”

“Well, neither is shaving you. But when I’m acting as barber, I don’t mind.”

“You do not?”

“You want me to do it?”

“If you do not mind. As I said, it is not required of a valet.”

McCoy sat back down in the chair, tilted the duke’s head back again. “I know it’s not required of a valet, but as I said, as your barber I don’t mind.” He wet Spock’s hair--silky and soft-- and began to wash.

“I committed no impropriety,” Spock said, suddenly.

“No what?” McCoy murmured, concentrating on his task.

“Impropriety.”

“With who?”

“The Countess of Blessington.”

“What about the countess?”

“I stayed the night at the countess’ abode.”

“Oh.”

“Mind you, I did not stay the night with her in her bedchamber. I merely stayed at her home.”

“Alright.”

“Nothing improper occurred between us.”

“My Lord, it’s none of my business, anyway.”

“It was late and she offered me the guest room.”

“Even if you had slept with her, it’s not improper, you certainly can do what you like, My Lord. Nothing wrong with sex.”

“I am not married to the lady, not even engaged, therefore it is highly improper for me to have done what I did.”

“Staying the night? At her house? Nobody knows.”

“Everybody knows.”

“Do they?” McCoy replied. “How would they know?”

“Her servants know. Therefore, before long, all of London shall know. Gossip between houses is faster than any technology.”

Hmmm, kind of like scuttlebutt on the Enterprise. “Well, who cares what everyone thinks?”

“The lady has a reputation to uphold.”

“If the lady was so worried about her reputation, she would not have offered you the room.”

“I suppose not,” the duke said.

*

McCoy was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables with Janice, when the duke appeared by his side.

“McCoy.” Spock inclined his head to indicate that he should follow.

McCoy trailed him into the parlor. “Yes, My Lord?”

“I intend to travel to Cambridge. I wish to leave in an hour. Ready the household.”

“Right away, My Lord.”

 

**SNOOPING**

 

McCoy pulled out the duke’s suitcase. He selected several tail coats for the various times of day, waistcoats, linen shirts, tie cloths, bloomers, boots, his toilette and all the other numerous things an aristocrat would need to visit his manor house out in the countryside.

He gathered up the duke’s personal items. His cufflinks, his box of awards from the Regent. He went over to the desk, picked up the duke’s leather bound journal.

He hadn’t intended to read it but suddenly it fell open in his hand, showing an entry in elaborate handwriting. He couldn’t help but snoop and that’s exactly what he was doing. Snooping.

The entry was from the other day. Spock was describing in great detail his experience of dancing with the ladies at that ball at Buckingham House. Naming all of their fancy aristocratic names. Spock was describing what he felt like, dancing. How it appealed to him, this formal style of interaction. His elation.

Fascinating.

The duke went on to lament how desperately he had struggled with the dance steps. He did not want to fail in this. Did not wish to look foolish. He felt awkward, like he was a teenager once again, back home on Vulcan.

It was difficult to imagine Spock as an gawky teen, much like he himself had been.

McCoy wanted to reassure the Vulcan. He did great. He looked smooth. Perfect. Stunning. You’d never know it that the duke didn’t know what he was doing at that ball.

He really should put this thing down but curiosity was getting the better of him.

McCoy skipped down a few lines to: ‘And... McCoy, my butler. He is most--’

“Sir?”

McCoy spun around to find Williams the second footman standing there. He snapped the journal shut. Obviously caught in the act. “Yes, Footman?”

“The duke informs me that he is ready to leave.”

“Thank you.” McCoy set the journal into the duke’s suitcase, then closed it. “Take this downstairs.”

“Yes, Sir.”

________________________  
on to next chapter


	7. Cambridge

**CAMBRIDGE**

 

After several hours of backbreaking journey aboard the coach--McCoy riding in the seat facing the duke, another carriage following behind, carrying the rest of the London servants-- they arrived in Cambridge.

Spock sat ramrod straight, in his traveling clothing and spoke nary a word. McCoy thought better to try and engage the duke in any unnecessary conversation.

They took the road leading to: Peerie Abbey, the Duke of Cambridge’s Manor house.

The coach halted at the front door. McCoy jumped out, waited for the duke to disembark. The footmen jumped down, before Kyle drove the carriage away to the stables.

The door was open. The butler of Peerie Abbey stood waiting. However, this man would be regulated to under-butler as long as McCoy was in residence.

And the man looked like he was in competition for the full time butler job. Didn’t seem at all thrilled about the sudden drop in status.

“Good evening, My Lord,” the under-butler said to Spock, giving a low bow. He possessed a cut glass, no nonsense, posh English accent. “We have been expecting you. I trust that you will find all in order.”

“Indeed?” Spock said. “I am gratified.”

“My absolute pleasure, My Lord,” the under-butler replied with another low bow. Kinda laying it on a little thick. McCoy and the under-butler exchanged a glance. “How do you do, Sir,” the under-butler said.

“Good evening. ‘Fenton’ is the name?” McCoy asked.

“Yes, Sir. You are ‘McCoy’, Sir?”

“I am. You’re dismissed to the kitchen, Fenton.”

Anger clouded those dark eyes. “Yes, Sir.” Fenton looked over at Spock. “My Lord.” He bowed again, turned on his heel and exited.

The duke, followed by McCoy, walked down the massive entry hall filled with more artwork and statues than had been in the London house. This place dwarfed the London house.

Before long another manservant walked up. “Good evening, My Lord.”

“And who might you be?” the duke asked.

“I am Jones. Your valet.”

“My valet?”

“Indeed, My Lord.” Goddamn, this one sounded just as stuffy as Fenton did.

“I was not aware that I possessed a valet,” the duke replied in a bemused tone. McCoy noticed that Spock had pronounced the word just like the man had, using the ‘t’ instead of keeping it silent.

“Indeed. Our butler--or rather, I beg your pardon, Sir,” Jones looked at McCoy, who nodded back, “our under-butler, Fenton, had hired me, as we anticipated that you might require--”

“I had not asked for a valet,” Spock said.

“Ah...yes, I see, My Lord.”

“You may stay on, Jones, for my guests shall require your services. However my butler, McCoy, acts as my valet in addition to my butler and I am quite comfortable with that arrangement.”

McCoy bounced his heels at that.

“Quite, My Lord?” Jones asked.

“Quite,” Spock confirmed.

“I see, My Lord. My apologies.”

“You shall not be so presumptuous as to my wants in future, shall you, Jones?”

“Indeed not, My Lord.”

“Excellent, you are dismissed.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Jones bowed and exited.

“Careful, My Lord,” McCoy whispered. “You know what they say: ‘The butler did it’. Fenton doesn’t appear to like his household upset too much.”

“Rubbish, McCoy, you watch entirely too much theatre,” Spock shot back...almost with an English accent if McCoy didn’t know him better.

*

It seemed obvious that the London crowd were interlopers to Peerie Abbey. The Cambridge servants were of course snooty and standoffish. Oh well, they wouldn’t be here for very long, only enough to make the duke’s presence known. McCoy had a feeling the duke had only escaped here to get away from the countess. That had to be it, since the departure from Grosvenor Square had been so abrupt. Though he worried about the other Enterprise crew still back in London, at least a few of them were here with him and he could look after Spock.

McCoy found his bedroom at Peerie Abbey to be almost identical albeit slightly larger the London one. Most importantly his quarters were still adjacent to the duke’s bedchamber.

He knocked on the adjoining door.

“Come.”

“Good evening, My Lord.” This abbey bedchamber, which was easily triple the size of the London one, was decorated almost identically. However in this room, the duke’s large, equally comfortable, mahogany four poster bed had yellow curtains surrounding it that closed off for privacy.

Spock was sitting at the the secretary desk, on the other side of the room in his robe, bloomers and slippers.

The marble fireplace was out. “It’s a mite chilly in here, My Lord. Want a fire?”

“Yes.”

Rather than calling the footman to do it, McCoy removed his tails and lit the fireplace. “There. Should grow to be a fraction warmer in these blasted drafty manors, Huh?”

Spock ignored him, kept writing. As McCoy dove back into his tail coat, he could hear the scratch of the quill pen. “Are there guests for dinner tonight, My Lord, or are you eating alone?”

“Alone. Have my meal sent up here, McCoy.”

“Very good, My Lord.” McCoy bowed and exited.

 

**PEERIE PIANO**

 

While the duke was having dinner upstairs. McCoy went into the large main parlor.

There was a mirrored fortepiano in the center of the room. McCoy went to it, touched the black keys. The fortepiano was gorgeous, almost gaudy, with a red velvet bench to match. It seemed much too flamboyant for Spock’s liking, however. It sounded nice, at any rate.

Nobody was in here, watching. Servants were scattered throughout the manor.

McCoy fluffed out his tails and sat down on the bench. He could play, but he was extremely rusty and he only knew a limited number of songs. He played the first one that came to mind: ‘Moonlight Sonata’.

He was so engrossed in the music for a few moments before he felt eyes boring into his. Somebody was standing behind him.

It was the duke. Looking rather informal in breeches, boots and waistcoat but no tie or coat.

McCoy stopped and stood up. “My apologies. I was supposed to be dusting and I got carried away.”

“I do not see a feather duster in your hands, McCoy. Besides, that is the parlor maid’s job to dust.”

McCoy moved away from the bench. “Yes. Well, uh--”

“Where are you going?”

“I have duties.”

“Finish the song, McCoy, at least.”

McCoy shrugged then fluffed his tails and sat back down at the fortepiano. Spock sat down next to him. McCoy began the song over again. “I thought you were eating your dinner, My Lord?”

“I was. I finished. I heard music. I became curious.”

Those damned Vulcan ears. “Why is that?”

“I wondered who would dare touch my piano. The other servants would not, therefore I surmised it would be you.”

“You didn’t know I could play.”

“I did not. And by the looks of things, you still cannot.”

“Hey, just because I’m not as talented a pianist as you, My Lord, does not mean, I can’t play. I’m just a wee bit out of practice.”

“Another of your abilities that I did not know about?”

“I suppose so.”

McCoy finished the song.

“Well done,” Spock said.

“I thought you said I couldn’t play?”

“For your abilities, you managed to get through it.”

“Thanks.”

“May I?” Spock asked.

“Hey, it’s your piano, you go right ahead,” McCoy said.

Spock immediately dove into a perfect rendition of ‘Sonata No. 14 in A Major’ by Mozart.

“Show off,” McCoy said.

Spock gave a one armed shrug. That came from spending too much time with humans, McCoy gathered.

McCoy delicately removed himself from the bench. “Would you like a brandy, My Lord?”

“Yes, I would,” Spock said as he played. “Pour one for yourself as well, McCoy.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t have his white gloves on, but hopefully since the duke was being rather informal at the moment, he wouldn’t notice or care. He poured out a glass for each, brought them back. Set them down on the fortepiano.

The front door bell rang. “I better go see who that is. I thought we weren’t expecting anyone.”

“I am not,” Spock said as he kept playing.

“I shall return, My Lord.” McCoy bowed, left the duke in the parlor, walked to the entry hall. When he opened the door, there was a messenger standing there. The man handed him a letter. “For the Duke, Sir.”

McCoy reached into his pocket, pulled out a crown. He handed the coin over to the man. “Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Sir.”

“Goodnight.” He shut the door and glanced down at the seal. It had ‘CB’ pressed into the red wax.

He walked back into the parlor, up to the fortepiano. “Letter came for you, My Lord.”

Spock stopped playing. “Ah.” The duke took the letter, broke the seal, opened it up and read it. “The Countess of Blessington has accepted my invitation to visit Peerie Abbey. She shall arrive tomorrow at midday.”

McCoy’s heart sank. “Very good, My Lord.”

*

Early the next morning, McCoy was shaving the duke when the Vulcan suddenly piped up: “McCoy, I assume you are able to ride on horseback?”

He nodded.

 

**SUNSHINE**

 

McCoy followed the duke, both of them dressed in riding crops, outside to the stables. He’d never seen the Vulcan ride a horse before. Spock mounted one effortlessly. “Well, come on, McCoy.”

McCoy nodded, mounting his own.

They rode out to the edges of the property, surveying the lush landscape: The trees, the lake, the stream, the green grass, the blue sky. Looked almost exactly like Earth. Hell, the sun was shining. Nice and warm out, too.

It seemed like a place he would like to retire to. Too bad it wasn't really Earth. Too bad Peerie Abbey wasn’t really his. It was just on loan.

Spock looked content out here as well. The duke got off his horse, walking towards the lake. He dipped his hand into it. “There are fish in here.”

“Too bad you don’t fish,” McCoy said.

“Neither do you. You find the practice barbaric.”

“You mean we agree on something?” McCoy shot back. “Never.”

If he didn’t know Spock better he could have sworn the duke smiled. Suddenly the duke resumed to his regular stony faced expression. “I believe I should return to the house.”

They got back onto their horses. “Last one back to the stables is a rotten egg,” McCoy teased.

He took off, Spock after him.

 

**RUSHED ENTRANCE**

 

When they reached the stables, Fenton was waiting for them. “My Lord, the Countess of Blessington has arrived.”

Spock got down off of his horse. He eyes widened in thinly veiled surprise. “Indeed?”

“She’s over an hour early,” McCoy said. “Dammit. We haven’t had--”

“Hush, McCoy.”

They greeted the Countess of Blessington in the entry hall. Her breasts were stuffed into her linen, almost transparent dress. McCoy stared at her bust a moment, blinked away.

The countess gave out a squeal. She ran towards the duke, circling her arms around his neck. The duke seemed to tolerate this, green darkening his pointed ears. The Countess’s breasts were pushed against Spock’s chest as she nuzzled his neck and looked into his eyes. “Why won’t you give me a hello kiss, Darling?”

McCoy smirked at that.

Spock grabbed the countess’ wrists every so delicately and gently pushed her off of him. “I am gratified to see you again, Margaret.”

“Oh, Darling, you look so scrumptious in your riding crop!” She took off her gloves, marched over to McCoy, slapped the pair and her reticule into his hands. “Do something with this, Footman.”

“I am the butler, My Lady,” McCoy told her.

“Hmph.” She waved him away, then turned to Spock. “He’s not a very attractive butler, is he. My man is so much more handsome.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Margaret, would you like to join me in the parlor?”

She grabbed onto Spock’s hand and they walked forward, McCoy following. They entered the parlor.

“May I bring you a refreshment, My Lady, after your long journey?” McCoy asked her.

“No...just leave us be for goodness sake.”

“Very good, My Lady.” McCoy turned to the duke. “My Lord?”

Spock met his eyes, seemingly uncomfortable to be left alone with the countess, but finally nodded.

McCoy bowed and left them alone

 

**THE CAM**

 

Punting along the River Cam was not McCoy’s idea of a good time, especially when it was him doing all of the punting in the afternoon sun with all these damned heavy layers of clothing on, trying to push along a boat loaded with a heavy Vulcan while he was entertaining a lady. Yes, it the scenery proved picturesque and all, just as the lady had mentioned it would be, the river flowing through the Cambridge University buildings, but he couldn’t enjoy the view. Not when it felt as if his arms were about to break off.

The lady had put away her dainty pink parasol and had plastered herself to the duke’s side, fingers running through his hair, playing with his pointy ears and tie and unbelievably, he was allowing it. The remains of their lunch lay next to them.

McCoy stumbled a bit with the pole. “My...Lord,” he began.

The boat hovered in front of the great Cambridge chapel.

“Stop!” the countess called out. “Stop, punting, Footman! I demand you stop this instant.”

“I’m a...butler....” McCoy gasped out as he stopped punting. “My...Spock....”

The duke finally glanced over his way. He looked down at the countess attached to him, tried and failed to push her away. “Margaret, I need to stand up.”

“No, you’re staying right here.” She snuggled in deeper, grabbing onto the duke’s coat.

McCoy sighed, leaning heavily onto the pole. He took off his glasses, let them lay on his chest.

“Margaret,” Spock was saying, “Let me up.”

She snuggled in deeper. “Hmmm. It is romantic right here, isn’t it darling. Kiss me.”

“Margaret.”

The countess got one kiss planted right on Spock’s mouth before he managed to avoid any more.

“Margaret, I must relieve the butler who has grown tired of his task.”

The countess wouldn’t budge.

“Margaret,” Spock said.

“Are we engaged?” she asked. “Tis such a romantic location to become engaged.”

Spock sighed. McCoy took his hanky and wiped his sweat from his brow. He undid his neck cloth.

“Spock, Darling, the butler is removing his clothing, ‘tis making me very uncomfortable.”

McCoy huffed out a laugh.

“Margaret, let me up,” Spock said.

“Not until you agree we’re engaged.”

Spock tried to bodily move her over but she must have been a dead weight. Obviously he possessed more than enough physical strength to pick her up and bodily throw her overboard, but apparently the duke did not want to do that. “Margaret,” Spock warned. “Please. I need to stand up.”

“I want to be engaged!”

McCoy sighed, opened up his pocket watch, looked at the time, slammed it shut. They were going to be stuck here a long while apparently and he had sit here and watch the lady assaulting the duke. “My Lady, how about another glass of brandy?” he said, in an effort to assist Spock.

“Not until my darling says we’re engaged. I’m not budging from his spot. We’ll sit here until the end of time.”

“There is no such thing as the end of time, that is illogical,” Spock replied.

McCoy snickered.

“McCoy,” Spock hissed.

“Just propose to the lady so we can all get the hell out of here,” McCoy muttered under his breath.

“What was that, McCoy?” Spock said.

“Nothing, My Lord.”

“I believe you said you wanted me to propose to the lady.”

The countess clapped and squealed. “Oooh, two against one!”

McCoy chuckled and shook his head.

The duke looked over at the countess. “If you wish to be engaged, I would not be adverse.”

McCoy’s mouth dropped open.

The countess made some kind of unearthly shriek, before pulling Spock down into a kiss.

“I was only joking, Spock.” McCoy watched the duke kiss the woman, or rather be devoured by the woman, but as long as the Vulcan was not trying to pull away...and he seemed to be enjoying himself--but the sight proved just...bizarre.

Spock was finally able to break the kiss and pull away from the countess. He stood up.

She helped herself to a chocolate. “Mmmm.”

McCoy moved away as Spock walked to the stern, rocking the boat back and forth. “My Lord. I don’t think this thing can support both of us being back here!”

McCoy was cut off as he lost his footing and fell into the river.

The countess screamed.

McCoy swam up to the surface.

Spock leaned out of the boat. “McCoy!”

“Goddamn, it.”

The countess yelled out at McCoy: “You IDIOT! You splashed me! My dress is positively soaked! It’s ruined.”

McCoy laughed at her predicament. He didn’t mean to be so nasty, but--

Spock held out his hand. “I shall help you into the boat, McCoy.”

McCoy swam up to the boat, grabbed the duke’s hand. He yanked as hard as he could and pulled the Vulcan into the water with him, creating another huge splash.

The countess shrieked yet again.

Spock came up to the surface next to McCoy.

“What are you doing to my fiance?” the countess yelled out. “You maniac!”

“Your fiance can swim, My Lady,” McCoy yelled back. “Why don’t you join us?”

“NO!” she screeched.

*

They were still sopping wet on the carriage ride home. McCoy carried both his and Spock’s soggy coats. The countess was fanning herself, giving McCoy the stink eye.

They arrived back at Peerie Abbey. Fenton opened the door.

The countess had her arm locked in with Spock’s almost defiantly as they strode though to the entry hall.

Fenton rolled his eyes at McCoy, who followed the couple at two paces behind.

“Good evening, My Lord, My Lady,” Fenton said.

“Good evening,” Spock said.

“Hmph,” the countess replied.

“Do you require the valet to dress for dinner, My Lord?” Fenton asked.

“No, Fenton, he does not require the valet,” McCoy replied.

“But Sir, you cannot possibly assist the duke, while you are so....” Fenton sighed. “Wet.”

“I can assist the duke just fine, Fenton,” McCoy ground out. “Thank you.”

“Should I have my man come here to assist you?” the countess said to Spock. “Being as you are my fiance now, Darling.”

“That will not be necessary, Margaret, thank you.”

Fenton raised an eyebrow in an exact imitation of Spock. “Fiance? Ah. Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials, My Lord, My Lady.”

“You are dismissed, Fenton,” Spock said.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“All of Cambridge knows the happy news now,” McCoy quipped.

*

In the bedchamber, McCoy removed the duke’s wet clothing.

“My Lord.”

“Yes, McCoy?”

“Is the... uh...your fiancee, the countess, aware we’re leaving this planet soon?”

“Thank you, McCoy, you are dismissed.”

“I mean...the engagement isn’t real...right? She’s only acting. Right?” McCoy tilted his head. “Are you going to have a pretend wedding?”

“McCoy, you are dismissed.”

“You’re only acting...right?”

“McCoy. Kindly remove yourself from my bedchamber. This instant.”

McCoy bowed. “Yes, My Lord.”

*

In much drier clothing, McCoy donned his white gloves then went out to the parlor. “My Lord, My Lady--”

“What do you want?!” the countess snapped.

“Margaret,” Spock said. “Do not talk to my man in that tone of voice.”

McCoy shifted his feet. His man? For some strange reason it got him a little tingly. Spock’s man? He was, wasn’t he. “Dinner is served,” he said.

“Oh,” the countess said. “Finally! I’ve been filling up on these...” She grabbed another chocolate out of the bowl. “Scrumptious delicious treats! Mmm. I fear I won’t have an appetite for food, now.”

“I am certain that you will, Margaret,” Spock said.

McCoy bowed and left the couple to go to the dining hall, rolling his eyes as he exited.

 

**PLOMEEK SERVICE**

 

As the footmen brought out the first course for the engaged couple, McCoy leaned against the kitchen wall. He poured himself a measure of brandy, had a large sip.

Leslie suddenly appeared at McCoy’s side. “Sir.”

“What is it, Leslie?”

“Problem, Sir. The duke wants you to handle the dinner service.”

“What?” McCoy choked on his brandy. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, Sir.”

McCoy sighed. “Goddammit.”

Serving dinner wasn’t his job, not presenting the food itself. That was for the footmen. He pulled on his white gloves, then went out into the dining hall.

The duke was seated on one end of the massive wooden table, the countess was on the other end. They were separated by a huge candelabra in the center. McCoy went over to Spock’s side. “Everything in order, My Lord?”

“Yes, McCoy.”

“Are the footmen not performing their duties adequately?”

“Apparently not. The countess,” Spock said with a sigh, “has requested that you handle tonight’s dinner service.”

“Oh? I thought the countess didn’t like me.”

“She has a complaint about her food,” Spock replied.

“Oh no. I’ll attend to her, immediately.” He bowed and walked over to the countess. “Yes, My Lady?”

She snapped her fingers at him. “Take this soup away, Butler.”

“What is wrong with it, My Lady?”

“It’s freezing cold!”

McCoy tilted his head. “It is supposed to be cold. Would you like something else?”

“Warm soup! Anything but this... disgusting...and it’s purple! Ugh!”

“Very good, My Lady.” McCoy took the soup, walked from the dining hall to the kitchen. He set it down. “Cook.”

Cook came rushing up. “What’s wrong? Doesn’t she like the soup?”

“Sorry, my dear. What else do we have?”

“Some leftover chicken soup. Last night’s dinner for the servants.”

“Warm that up.”

“Right away, Sir.” Cook hurried off.

When the chicken soup was ready, Cook waved him over. She dished it up in another bowl, set that on the silver tray. “How does Spock like his uh... ‘Plom-eek’? Plo-meek, how do you pronounce it?”

“‘Plomeek soup’, you got it correct, the first time,” McCoy replied. “I assume he likes it.”

“I’m not used to working off a recipe like that.”

“I’m sure you did it just fine, Cook. He hasn’t said anything to the contrary.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if the duke was unhappy with his soup.”

McCoy smiled. “I’m certain he likes it, just fine. It’s his favorite.”

She held up a handwritten piece of paper. “Where’d you get the recipe from?”

“I uh...wrote it down, I have it memorized,” McCoy said.

“Why?”

McCoy grinned sheepishly. “I’ve fixed Plomeek soup before. For him.”

“Indeed?”

“Is the chicken soup ready?” McCoy asked.

“Here you go, Sir!” Cook handed him the tray. “Good luck with the lady!”

He brought the chicken soup out to the dining hall, set it on the table in front of the lady. “Perhaps you might like this instead.”

She dug right in. Slurping it away.

McCoy bowed and walked over to Spock. Spock was finished with his soup. McCoy picked up the empty bowl and set it on his tray.

“McCoy,” Spock whispered.

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Did you give the countess Plomeek soup?”

“What makes you think that, My Lord?”

“McCoy,” Spock warned.

“Yes I did, My Lord.” McCoy tilted his head down, looked up at the duke. “It was a mistake. Honest.”

The duke held his gaze. “That is not very nice.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Humans cannot eat Plomeek soup.”

“Humans can eat it just fine, My Lord. It is edible. Whether they like the taste of it or not, is another story.”

Spock sighed. “Do not feed the countess Vulcan food, again,” he said with clenched teeth.

“It was a mistake,” McCoy protested.

“Darling!” the countess yelled over. “This soup is so much better!”

“Excellent, Margaret,” Spock called back. “I am gratified to hear it.”

“Good God,” McCoy hissed. “You two need an intercom system.”

“Thank you, McCoy, you may go.”

“Second course will be out, shortly, My Lord.” McCoy bowed and exited.

*

After dinner and desert, the duke and the countess went again to the parlor.

McCoy cleared the dinner dishes from the dining hall then joined the other servants at the kitchen table to wolf down his own supper. He ignored Fenton who glared at him.

There was the strains of music as McCoy entered the parlor an hour later to find out if the couple needed more refreshments. Spock sat at the fortepiano, his tails fluffed over the bench. The countess reclined on the sofa. McCoy didn’t want to interrupt the duke’s recital, so he stood politely watching and listening to Spock’s stunning rendition of Mozart, which he knew was Spock’s favorite classical composer.

That is until the countess craned her neck around. “Butler!” she yelled out. “What do you want?”

Spock stopped playing and glanced over.

McCoy scowled. “Forgive my intrusion, My Lord, My Lady. Would you like a refreshment?”

“Mmmm. Some brandy. Quickly, man.”

McCoy went over to the decanter and poured out a measure in a snifter. “Anything for you, My Lord?”

“No, thank you, McCoy.”

McCoy brought the brandy to the countess.

She snapped her fingers at him. “Hurry, Butler.”

McCoy glanced over at Spock. The countess took a long sip. “Mmmmm.”

“Margaret, please,” Spock told her. “My man has a name.”

“I’ve forgotten what it was,” she replied.

“It is McCoy.”

“Yes, yes,” she said with impatience. “So it is. You are dismissed, Butler.”

 

**WE WANT TO BE ALONE**

 

The next morning, McCoy opened the door to Spock’s bedchamber, as quietly as he could carrying a tray.

Spock was still asleep in his four poster bed, the curtain drawn aside. Williams was also in the room, starting the fire as silently as he could. McCoy nodded at the footman to dismiss him.

He set the tray down on Spock’s desk. He couldn’t help but watch the Vulcan sleep for a minute. Completely relaxed, lips parted ever so slightly, wearing his nightgown, those long dark eyelashes. McCoy felt like a creep for watching, and prepared to gently wake him up.

‘KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!‘

Spock stirred.

“I’ll see who it is,” McCoy whispered.

“Yes, do so,” Spock rasped out.

There were more hard pounds on the door before McCoy could get it open.

It was the countess, in her nightgown and carrying another tray. “Yoo hoo!” she said. “Spock, Darling! Wakey, wakey!”

“My Lady,” McCoy began.

“Out of the way, Butler.” She pushed the tray into McCoy’s hands, then stormed past him. “Spock!” She marched over and plopped down in the bed next to the duke. “Good morning, Darling!”

“Good morning, Margaret.”

“I thought we’d have breakfast in bed together!”

“Did you?” Spock replied. “Ah.”

The countess reached over and booped Spock’s on the nose. “You are so adorable when you first wake up!”

“My Lady,” McCoy said again. “The duke has not bathed nor dressed yet. I’m certain he would be more amenable to receive you after he has made himself decent.”

“Nonsense! We’ll have breakfast together in bed. Butler, bring over my tray and Spock’s tray while you’re at it.”

Spock nodded with a reluctant look in his dark eyes.

“Yes, My Lady,” McCoy said.

“You’ll be doing this a great deal when the duke and I are married, Butler. Or rather, my man shall.” The countess giggled.

McCoy set the countess’ tray in her lap, then brought over the duke’s.

The countess reached over and closed the curtain. “Out, Butler. We want to be alone.”

McCoy backed politely out of the bedchamber.

*

McCoy noticed that the duke was suddenly wearing with his day coat a pair of black, patent leather, heeled shoes with white stockings. Spock didn’t normally wear the shoes. He preferred boots. When had the duke gone and changed them? He had put Spock in boots that morning himself--after he’d managed to kick out that damned countess so that the duke could dress.

They trudged outside to shoot a game of archery. McCoy trailed behind the duke and countess, carrying the couple’s bows and arrows.

McCoy caught up with the duke. “You changed from your boots, My Lord. Why? Boots might be more comfortable for an outdoor pursuit, such as this.”

The countess noticed them talking, she stomped over. “My darling looks so much better in heeled shoes!” she demanded.

“Yes, but for outside pursuits, one would wear--” McCoy said.

“Margaret does not like me in boots,” the duke said. “She prefers shoes.”

“Oh,” McCoy said. “Alright. I guess it’s shoes from now on.”

“Indeed.”

 

**WHAT MUSIC**

 

In the kitchen, McCoy noticed his bell ringing. He put down his lunch and walked into the parlor.

The countess snapped her fingers at him. “Butler! You play!”

McCoy glanced over at Spock, then back to her. “Barely, My Lady.”

“You can read music, can’t you?”

“Well...yes.”

She picked up a piece of sheet music and rattled it at him, then threw it onto the fortepiano. “Play this! I want my darling to watch me sing for him.”

McCoy looked over at Spock for permission. He sighed, silently as not to offend the lady then went over to the fortepiano. He fluffed out his tails, sat down on the bench. He studied the music a moment before the countess snapped her fingers again at him.

“Well, come on!” she said.

“Yes, My Lady,” he breathed out, then began to play what was on the sheet: ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’. He played a few counts before she came in with the voice part.

Her voice sounded precisely like fingernails scratching on a chalkboard. He winced. She hit a high note and he winced again. He tried to concentrate on the music. He failed. He glanced up.

Spock was staring at him, appearing almost entranced, not looking at all at the countess.

McCoy blushed.

The countess stopped singing. She picked up her feather reticule and smacked McCoy on the back. “You are useless, Butler! Spock! Help us!” She waved the duke over with frantic hand movements.

“Quite the contrary, Margaret. McCoy’s playing is highly competent. In fact my man seems to have improved his proficiency a great deal. Have you been practicing on my fortepiano?”

McCoy shook his head ‘no’.

“Odd. It is better than the other day.”

“Perhaps, I perform well under pressure.”

“Perhaps.”

McCoy stood up from the bench. “If I may, My Lord, I shall return to my duties in the kitchen and leave you both alone.”

“No, no, no, McCoy. Stay.” Spock rifled in the pile of music on top of the fortepiano. He pulled out another sheet. “Perhaps you might attempt this one.”

“My Lord,” McCoy said.

“Sit down, McCoy. I will assist you, if need be.”

McCoy reluctantly obeyed.

“Margaret,” Spock said. “The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1. Prelude and Fugue in C major.”

The countess nodded. Spock stood over McCoy, pointing to the notes. As McCoy hunkered down to play, he felt Spock’s warm hand resting upon the top of his back. The countess didn’t appear to notice, she was back to eating up all the chocolates. McCoy closed his eyes a moment at the contact.

Until he hit a wrong note, startling him. “Sorry,” he hissed.

“It is quite alright.” But Spock didn’t move his hand.

“How do you like the music, Margaret?” Spock asked. Still not removing his hand.

“This fortepiano I bought you, Darling, certainly sounds divine,” the countess said. “However, I do not know so much about the butler’s ability.” She ate another chocolate.

“The countess bought you this piano?” McCoy asked Spock.

“She did.”

“I see.”

McCoy made it to the end of the song. He stood up from the bench, shaking off the duke’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me, My Lord, My Lady. I have duties in the kitchen.”

___________________

on to next chapter


	8. Engagement

**ENGAGEMENT**

 

At Peerie Abbey, that evening, in the grand hall, there was a ball to announce the engagement of Lord Spock, The Duke of Cambridge to Lady Margaret, Countess of Blessington.

The guests began to arrive: Lord and Lady Severin, Lord Scotty, Earl of Perth; Lady Nyota, Countess of Wessex; Lord Hikaru, Earl of Liverpool; Lord John Hadley, Earl of Snowdon along with the many other assorted lords and ladies, landed gentry, high society of Cambridge and London. Everyone who was anyone was to attend.

McCoy, Fenton and the footmen ran themselves ragged announcing guests, taking coats and hats, offering drinks.

There was a full piece orchestra set up in the corner of the ballroom. Lots of dancing on the black and white marble floor. Lots of sashes, badges, tiaras.

Spock, in his dark blue tuxedo, frilly shirt, blue sash and badges, silver waistcoat, white breeches and black heeled shoes, danced every dance the entire night with the countess as would be expected, McCoy supposed.

Spock and his fiancee the countess, the Lady wearing a tiara along with her red sash over a pink dress, were apparently joined at the hip all evening. The regent was holding court over in the corner, telling anyone who would listen: "I knew there would be a love connection!"

McCoy carried around a silver tray, delivering a drink to the the duke and countess chatting with the rector of the Cambridge Cathedral.

“My Lord, My Lady, when can I expect to read out the Banns regarding your upcoming nuptials?” the rector asked.

“Reverend,” Spock said to the man in black. “It is my feverent wish that the wedding might commence next saturday.”

The rector nudged Spock. “Most eager, eh, My Lord? Well...I think I can make an exception for the Duke of Cambridge. You shall have your wedding whenever you desire, even if it is to be held in mere days.”

“Thank you.”

McCoy’s mouth dropped open a fraction before he recovered and inched away.

A wedding? Next saturday? That meant their wedding would be held before Spock was due to even leave this planet.

Was Spock really going to marry her? It seemed like it. He wasn’t acting at all. Spock was serious.

The idea of it made his blood boil. Spock hardly knew the countess. The little time McCoy had spent around that woman, she annoyed the hell out of him. What did Spock see in her? Marry her? How could Spock do such a thing?

McCoy stood in the kitchen, nursing a brandy, watching through the doorway yet another dance going on. He noticed Lord Christine dancing with a very handsome young Lord with a handlebar mustache, who was pointedly not Lord James. He smiled at that, then sulked again in his drink.

Cook appeared next to him, also watching the dancing. “Hmmmm,” she said. “How the other half lives.”

“Yeah,” McCoy replied.

“I learned how to dance all these dances in drama school. Lot good it’s done me, though, I’ll tell ya that.”

“Oh?” McCoy said.

“Spend all me time cookin’. No time for dancin’. Dancing’s only for them. Oooh, look how much fun they’re having.”

“You’re not cooking right now. Are ya?”

“No,” Cook said. “I’m not. Nothing to do right now, but watch.”

“Would you like to dance?” McCoy asked her.

Cook looked around. “With who?”

“With me.”

“With the butler? Of the Duke of Cambridge?”

“Well? Do you or don’t you?” McCoy held out his hand. “Come on, Darling. May I have this dance?”

“Ooh, I couldn’t,” Cook said, holding her hands up to her face. Blushing. “Not with the butler. What would people say?”

McCoy took her hand in his. “They’ll say we look stunning. Come on.” He dragged her out to the dance floor. He bowed and she curtseyed, with a faint giggle.

As he twirled Cook around, he heard Uhura’s voice say: “Look! McCoy’s dancing!” The Enterprise crew members gathered around and watched. He ignored them, concentrating on Cook. She was in heaven and so was he.

The dance finished. The assembled broke out into applause. McCoy bowed low to Cook and she curtsied again.

“That was so much fun!” Cook said.

McCoy chuckled. He stepped back then spun around, right into the Duke of Cambridge. He immediately sobered. Oh oh.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “McCoy.”

“Good evening, My Lord.” McCoy cleared his throat and waited for the tongue lashing he was about to receive.

Spock suddenly held out his hand. The music started again. “May I have this dance?”

McCoy glanced around him. Cook had suddenly gone. The countess wasn’t around, either. “With who?”

“With you.”

McCoy stared a moment, raised an eyebrow, then nodded. He took Spock’s outstretched hand.

There was an even larger crowd this time, looking on. When the dance finished, there was more rapturous applause.

“They approve,” McCoy said into Spock’s ear.

“Agreed.” The corner of Spock’s mouth turned up in that smiling but not smiling way of his.

“My Lord,” McCoy breathed.

“My butler,” Spock replied.

They bowed to each other.

Spock then turned and danced with Cook, as McCoy danced with Janice Rand, then the other maids, then Lady Nyota, then Lady Christine. Some of the other ladies were lining up to dance with him and McCoy obliged a few more before he begged off to go back to his duties.

 

**ROMANCE**

 

The next morning, McCoy brought the duke’s breakfast in. Spock was already up and sitting at that desk in his robe and slippers.

“Are we expecting the countess up here to join you for breakfast, My Lord?” McCoy set the tray front of him and poured out the duke’s tea.

“No. I daresay the countess will not rise until the late afternoon. She had quite a bit of brandy to drink last night.”

“Will she require a hangover remedy?”

“No,” Spock said sharply.

“Ah,” McCoy said. “Very good, My Lord. I shall be in the kitchen, please ring if you need me.”

Spock took a sip of his tea. “McCoy, I need you right now.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“I need your assistance,” Spock added.

“I see. How may I help you?”

Spock sighed, picked up his pen. “I need...you...to help me draft a letter to the countess.”

“I see, My Lord. Well, perhaps it would be to wise end your engagement in person. A break-up letter might seem entirely too...uncivilized. Convenient to do it now, however, since she is currently residing in the bedroom on the second floor.”

Spock huffed an almost laugh. “Hush, McCoy. I do not intend to end my engagement. I wish to draft a...romantic letter to her.”

“A...love letter?” McCoy said.

“Yes, that.” Spock swallowed audibly. “You appear to be much more versed in such matters of romance. I lack the finesse, the vocabulary, the experience.”

“You seemed to be doing just fine in that department, My Lord. The countess gifted you with a priceless fortepiano. She must be rather taken with you. Perhaps Lord James or Lord Scotty would be better help with composing a love letter.”

“Nonsense, McCoy.” Spock picked up his quill pen. “What shall I write? Tell me.”

McCoy hitched his left hip onto the desk. “I don’t know, My Lord, I’m not very good with that sort of thing, myself. Maybe you could...tell her how much you love her, tell her...” He looked into Spock’s eyes. “Tell her how being in the same room with her makes you feel. How your heart skips a beat, how you get butterflies, how you lose yourself when you look at her, how much you care about her. Tell her much you respect her intelligence, her logic, her attention to duty and decorum, how much you like taking care of her, how stunning her brown eyes are--”

“The countess has green eyes, McCoy.”

“Does she?” McCoy blushed and glanced away. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s a lucky woman, anyhow.”

“Indeed?”

“Yeah,” McCoy said. He let out a long sigh and said in a strangled tone: “I’ll be in the kitchen. Please ring when you need me to run your bath.” He bowed and exited.

*

The duke leaned his head back in the tub, eyes closed as McCoy shaved him, then washed his hair. Spock had been quiet the entire time. Seemed almost tense. After rinsing the duke’s hair, McCoy let his hands fall to Spock’s shoulders. He began to kneed them, masaginging with a light touch at first then a bit harder.

Spock let out a soft moan of what was unmistakable pleasure. The duke then sat up in the tub, batted McCoy’s hands away. “Stop.”

“Sorry, My Lord. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Perhaps the countess had been correct, I should be utilizing the valet instead of having my butler double as one.”

McCoy stood up from his chair.

“Call Jones in here, McCoy. I shall have him dress me today.”

It felt like a kick in the gut. “Yes, by all means, My Lord.” McCoy walked out of the bathroom and out of Spock’s bedchamber.

*

McCoy was setting a cup of tea in front of the duke in the dining hall, flanked by the two footmen, when the countess rose up from her end of table. She ran for the duke, shrieking, a letter clutched in her hand.

She threw her arms around Spock. “Darling! You are the most romantic nobleman in all of England!”

Spock was clad in a light blue day coat, gold waistcoat which clashed terribly in McCoy’s humble opinion, yellow breeches and black buckled shoes. A combination of which McCoy would never have chosen had he been the one to dress the duke this morning. And where was the duke’s cufflinks and pocket watch? He made a mental note to chastise Jones, the valet.

The duke peeled the countess’ claws off of him, or at least attempted to and wasn’t very successful at it. “Please, Margaret, not in front of the servants.”

McCoy stood at attention, not looking at either of them directly, but watching out of the corner of his eye.

The countess let out an: “Oh, blast.” She released the duke. “Soon my Darling. After the wedding. Then they won’t be able to keep us apart!”

“Indeed.”

The countess leaned her head back in a apparent flirtatious move. “Spock, Darling.”

Spock took a sip of his tea. “Yes, Margaret?”

“I want another ball.”

“We just had a ball, Margaret.”

McCoy rolled his eyes as he listened.

“Yes, Darling, but I want another ball,” the countess said. “A fun one this time. The last one was so boring.”

“Fun?” Spock raised an eyebrow. McCoy had to keep himself from snickering.

“Yes, Darling. I want a themed ball.”

“What sort of theme?”

“A masquerade ball. It will be so much fun!”

Spock considered this a moment. “When?”

“Tomorrow night,” the countess said.

“McCoy,” Spock said. “Can we be ready for a masquerade ball?”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“I will handle all of the decorations!” the countess said.

“Excellent, Margaret. Now dear, please return to your lunch. It is getting cold.”

The countess went back to her side of the table. McCoy bowed and left the couple alone.

 

**THE NEW SERVANTS**

 

The duke and the countess went out in the carriage, this time taking only the footmen and leaving McCoy behind.

McCoy sipped his coffee, leaving his lunch untouched.

Cook was pacing back in forth in the kitchen. “Masquerade ball indeed!”

“Yeah,” McCoy said, playing with his spoon.

“We shan’t have nearly enough time to get everything ready! All the preparations, the decorations, the extra food! That woman!” Cook stamped her foot.

The front bell rang. McCoy set down his napkin. “Wonder who that could be?”

He walked through the entry hall, went to the front door and opened it.

A man, dressed identically to McCoy, flanked by a couple of maids, spun around. “Good day, Sir,” the man said.

“Good day,” McCoy replied. “The duke is not in. Please leave your card and I shall be happy to present it to him upon his return.”

“Oh, yes, uh....” The man dug into his pocket, held out a letter instead of a calling card. “We’ve...uh...you see, Sir...we’ve been summoned, Sir.”

“Summoned? By whom?” McCoy opened up the letter. It was from the countess, ordering her butler and he maids to come to Peerie Abbey, immediately.

McCoy handed the letter back to the man. “Is that so? Well. Your presence here is quite redundant. You may return to London. Good day, Sir.” He went to close the door.

The butler stuck his foot in the way. “Begging your pardon, Sir. I was ordered to come to Peerie Abbey by the duke’s fiance. We cannot be turned away. Sir.”

“Peerie Abbey already has a butler and plenty of maids,” McCoy told the man.

“Please, Sir,” the man said. “Our bladders. At least allow us the curtesy of using the watercloset before our return to London.”

McCoy scowled and studied the servants for a moment. “Alright. Please, do come in. You know, we do have a servants entrance. Never mind. The water closets are there and there.”

McCoy stood with hands behind his back waiting for the group to exit. “You must pardon my ill manners just before. Would you three like a cup of tea before you go?”

“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” the man said. They turned to walk to the kitchen before the front bell rang.

“The kitchen is that way,” McCoy said. “Excuse me.” He went to the front door, opened it.

The duke and countess’ carriage was approaching. “Leslie!” McCoy called out.

Leslie came running up, skidding on the black and white floor. “Stop running!” McCoy hissed at the man.

“Sorry, Sir.”

They went out and waited for the carriage. McCoy sensed the man and maids standing behind him. It was far too late to send them away.

The carriage pulled up. Leslie opened the door. The duke stepped out.

“Good afternoon, My Lord,” McCoy said.

Spock helped the countess out of the carriage. When she spotted the other butler and maids she squealed out: “It’s Burnley!”

Spock turned to look. “We appear to have quite a crowd gathered in front of my door.”

Burnley stepped forward. “Good afternoon, My Lord. I am, the countess’ butler, from London.”

“Indeed?” Spock said, walking past McCoy, who followed him. “A bit redundant, do you not agree?”

Burnley and the maids were crowded around the countess as they all entered the reception hall.

McCoy took the duke’s hat, walking stick. “A word, My Lord,” McCoy hissed.

“Margaret, what is this?” Spock said, turning around, away from McCoy.

“Darling! Remember, I told you I’d send for my man and maids. Isn’t he scrumptious? We’ll need their help for the masquerade ball.”

“My Lord.” Burnley bowed to the duke. The maids curtseyed.

“Excellent,” Spock said. “McCoy, show these people around, get them quartered.”

McCoy came close to Spock. “My Lord. A word in the parlor.”

Spock glanced from Burnley back to McCoy, an amused glint in his dark eyes. He sighed. “Pardon me, Margaret.” He strode into the parlor, McCoy at his heels. Ella, the parlor maid, was in there, dusting.

Spock fluffed out his tails and sat down at the fortepiano. “Yes, McCoy?”

“Don’t ‘yes McCoy’ me, Spock!” McCoy seethed. “How dare you?! How dare you?!”

“What appears to be the problem?” Spock asked.

“You have a butler. It’s me! I’m your butler. Not him!”

“I do not particularly like your tone of voice, McCoy.”

“Spock!”

The duke stood up from the bench, walked away from him.

“Chartreuse!” McCoy yelled out. “Goddammit, Chartreuse!” The candelabra on the fortepiano flickered.

At the use of the safe word, Spock spun around, came back. “What is it, Doctor?”

“Spock, dammit! I’M your butler. Unless you’re promoting me to steward. I’M your butler!”

Spock fluffed out his tails, sat back down on the bench, facing away from the fortepiano keys this time. “You are enjoying your role too much, Leonard.”

McCoy huffed out a laugh. “Speak for yourself, Spock. You’re the one who’s been swanning around as an English nobleman for days, burying yourself in the part!” He removed his glasses, realized there had been a tear welling up, he shook his head.

Spock gently took the glasses from him, as far as they were attached to the chain. “These are real.”

“Yes, of course they’re real.”

“You cannot see?”

“I can see you. You’re just...blurry, even close up like this. Severe macular degeneration.”

Spock nodded and handed the glasses back.

They sat in silence for a moment before Spock said: “You are my butler. Margaret’s staff is only here on a temporary basis. They shall be gone after the masquerade ball. She assures me as such.”

“Do you believe her?” McCoy glanced over and realized the parlor maid was still present, dusting and listening to every word.

“Of course I do. She is my fiancee.”

“Are you really fixing to marry the countess?” McCoy asked.

Spock stood up, back in character. “Attend to the newcomers, McCoy.” The duke exited the parlor, leaving McCoy alone.

McCoy donned his spectacles then realized...Spock had called him Leonard. He’d never done that before.

*

It became readily apparent that tomorrow evening’s planned masquerade ball at Peerie Abbey was to be on a much larger, grander scale of a party than the previous ball just a couple days before.

Deliveries of food were brought in, one right after the other, through the servants entrance, sending the house staff into a frenzy. Especially the overworked Cook. There was lush red brocade fabric delivered for drapery for every room in the house. Feathers, decor. The countess shouted orders at the drapery hangers, the costumers, anybody within earshot.

The duke seemed to willing to accommodate each and every demand of hers, all the while obsessing in the library over the accounts.

“I do not know how I will pay for this extravaganza,” Spock mused to McCoy, clutching yet another invoice.

“Well, you’re filthy rich, being the Duke of Cambridge and all. I wouldn’t worry about the money,” McCoy replied.

Spock gave McCoy a look.

“Should be quite a shindig, huh?” McCoy said.

“The last of them for the season, I hope.”

“Why? Don’t you like balls and parties? Even the Regent is invited. Be a chance to let your hair down, live a little, wear a mask and costume, be completely anonymous.”

“Let my hair down?”

There was the tapping sound of heeled shoes running across a wooden floor, then Janice Rand entering the library, skidding to a stop. “Doctor! Chartreuse! Chartreuse!”

McCoy spun around, dropped character. “What is it?”

“It’s Cook! Come quickly!”

 

**COOK**

 

McCoy found Cook lying in a pool of blood, unconscious, on the kitchen floor. Her finger was cut down to the bone.

“Janice, get my medical kit, quickly!” he said.

“Where is it?”

“In my room, under the bed, in a brown suitcase.”

“I’m not allowed up there in your bedrooms.”

McCoy grabbed a clean towel offered up by one of the servants. “I’m giving you permission! Now go! Hurry up!”

He clamped his hands hard onto the wound to stem the bleeding, which was seeping right through the towel as he waited for Rand’s return.

Spock appeared at his right elbow. “Will she be alright?”

“She will, as soon as I can treat her. See if you can hurry Janice up.”

Spock nodded and took off.

Seconds later Spock returned with the medi-kit and tri-corder. “Get me my scanner,” McCoy said. Spock dug into the tri-corder’s drawer and retrieved it. The scanner whirled. Spock held it up so McCoy could see the read out. “Artery is severed, tendons. Substantial blood loss. Spock, hold onto this, will ya?” Spock took hold of Cook’s injured hand. McCoy dug out his hypospray, loaded a drug to stop the bleeding, tri-x compound to rebuild lost platelets and hemogoblin, then went to work on repairing the injury.

“Where’s Cook’s quarters?” McCoy asked Janice.

“Over there.” Rand pointed to a back hallway leading away from the kitchen.

“You wish to transport her into her quarters?” Spock asked.

McCoy nodded. Spock leaned down and gently gathered Cook into his arms, carrying her to her room, followed by McCoy.

Spock lay Cook gently onto her bed. McCoy took her duvet, covered her with it. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Spock leaned against the wall, folded his arms.

“She’ll be alright, Spock. She’ll rouse soon. Soon as her blood volume builds back up a bit.”

“I’m am the one to blame for this,” Spock said.

“It was obviously an accident.”

“Nevertheless, if I had not agreed to a masquerade extravaganza, she might not have been working quite so hard on preparations.”

“Things happen, Spock. It’s alright. She’ll live.”

“It is fortuous that you are available.”

McCoy shrugged, looked back over at Cook. “She’s coming round.”

Cook opened her eyes and struggled to sit up.

“Easy now.” McCoy pushed her back down onto her pillow. “You gave us quite a scare.”

Cook glanced down at the white bandage wrapped around her hand. “Oh, dear, me.” She glanced around her quarters. “How’d I get in here?”

McCoy nodded towards the duke. “Your knight in shining armor over there carried you to bed.”

Cook let out a weak giggle. “Indeed.” She looked back at her injured hand. “Cutting up those bloody chickens. I thought I’d do them really quickly with the cleaver and look where that got me!”

“Hey, if you wanted to leave us, you could have just quit, rather than trying to hack off a limb,” McCoy joked.

Cook giggled again. “Good thing our butler is one of those fancy doctors and a handsome one at that. Don’t you agree My Lord?”

“Cook,” Spock said. “I am gratified that you shall recover. I would have never forgiven myself had we--”

“There you are!” The countess suddenly came bursting into Cook’s quarters. “What is all this? Cook! Lazing the day away in bed?! Spock! Fire this woman, immediately! I demand that you--!”

Spock took hold of the countess’ arm. “Margaret. A word.” He pulled her into the hallway. Soon they could hear the lady’s yelling from the other side of the house.

“What is she like?” Cook hissed. “Lazing around--I’ve never heard such utter tosh in all my life-- lazing around indeed. That woman! Oooh! And to think that soon they’ll be married! Oooh!”

“Well,” McCoy said.

“I wish the duke would marry you, instead! You know, it’s legal for two men to get married. Unlike the real England of 1820. We’re a bit more progressive where it counts.”

“Marry me?” McCoy replied. “Madame, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me thinks you’ve lost too much blood. The Duke of Cambridge can’t marry his butler.”

“But you two...I saw how he danced with you. Looked into your eyes like he wanted you. I see how he looks at you most days. He’s never looked at the countess like that. Ever.”

“It’s probably just because he and I are shipmates in real life.”

“I can see he fancies you. Anybody could see that. And you fancy him.”

McCoy cleared his throat and stood up. “I’d better git and uh... let you get some rest, huh? I’ll take over kitchen duties. Stay in bed till tomorrow morning. I’ll come back and check on you.”

Cook tried to get up again. “Stay in bed? I can’t do that, It’s nearly dinner time! I’ve got to--”

“Easy, Cook. I’ll take care of everything. I can fix dinner.”

“All the courses? You?”

“Yes, me. The countess won’t know the difference.” The Cook flopped down, but was downright unhappy about it. “How about I bring you a nice cup of tea, huh? And a book. Something saucy.”

Cook sighed. “Fine. A cuppa and a romance novel.”

“Now you’re talkin’. I’ll be right back.”

*

McCoy removed his tail coat, rolled up his sleeves and tied an apron around his waist. He rang Burnley, the countess’ butler and Fenton, the under-butler into the kitchen.

They arrived, standing ramrod straight, hands behind their backs, a stance that would do a Vulcan proud.

“You, Fenton, will handle the front door if need be. You, Burnley, will handle dinner service, drinks, supervise the footmen tonight.”

“Very good, Sir,” they both replied in icy tones.

*

“I trust everything was as you wished, My Lord?” McCoy asked the duke in the dining hall, as the footmen served desert.

“Tell Cook that dinner was divine, she outdid herself, in spite of her unfortunate accident earlier,” Spock said, holding McCoy’s gaze.

“Thank you, I will tell her that you enjoyed dinner tonight,” McCoy said. He darted a glance over at the countess who was engrossed in her ice cream. He bowed then exited.

 

**BURNLEY**

 

He felt somebody shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to find Burnley, the countess’ butler standing over him.

“Good morning, Sir,” the man whispered. “I’ve lit your fire.”

“What are you doing here?” McCoy croaked. “Where’s Williams or Leslie?”

“The footmen are both assisting the countess. She is already up and working on preparations.”

“Oh. Time?”

Fenton handed McCoy a steaming hot cup of tea. “Five am on the nose, Sir.”

“Hmmm. Still is a lot to do this morning.”

“Yes, Sir,” the footman said. “I hope you don’t mind. I started the duke’s fire.”

“Is he awake?”

“No, Sir.”

“Thank you. You may go, Burnley.”

The footman nodded and left.

McCoy took a long sip of the tea. Maybe he’d been wrong about Burnley. Seemed a nice enough chap. Mmm. Tea was delicious. Made just right. Tasted like earl grey.

And look at that, they even gave him a slice of freshly baked, still warm cake. The sliver resting on the saucer. Must have been Cook’s doing.

He needed to check up on her, see how she was doing this morning. He finished the rest of the tea. It would behoove him to get going as quickly as possible this morning.

Suddenly, he dropped the tea cup and saucer, they hit the floor and shattered.

He tried to get up, but fell across his bed. His limbs were heavy. He couldn’t move.

“Oh no,” he gasped out. “I’ve been--”

The room faded to black.

_____________________  
on to next chapter


	9. Bal Des Savages

**BAL DES SAVAGES (WILD MEN'S BALL)**

 

He opened his eyes.

He was laying face down on his bed. There was faint music, outside the room. It sounded like--

He sat up. The room spun.

He felt for his spectacles. He looked over at the clock on his nightstand. Eleven pm. It was late. The party had already started.

He managed to get out of bed. He shook his head to clear himself of the dizziness. He dug out his scanner, used it on himself.

Drugged.  With phenobarbital. A huge dose, intended to knock him out till next morning.

He slid off the spectacles, pulled them off his head. He set them down on his nightstand.  He gave himself something to counteract the residual effects of the drug, then he took his Retinax. He threw on a new pair of bloomers, breeches, stockings, buckled shoes and a linen shirt, nothing else.

*

The music grew louder as he made his way down the main staircase.

There were throngs of guests milling about. All of them in costumes, masked and completely anonymous. Some of them were dressed as multicolored clowns and court jesters. Many of the masks looked like they were straight out of a nightmare. Many wore velvet robes. Some wore more elaborate outfits, some were dressed like marie Antoinette and by the looks of them, could be male or female.

Partygoers were stuffed into every nook and cranny. Couldn’t tell who or what anybody was.

The vibe was downright unsettling. Peerie Abbey had been completely transformed into a red draped, fluttery gothic horror-fest, lit by dim, flickering candles.

A couple of the masked ball goers pointed and giggled at him, ran their hands down his shirt.

He pulled away, plucking their hands off of him. He didn’t want to play.

Another guest in a feathered mask and robe approached him, pressed a costume into his arms, indicating he should don it. He didn’t do anything, stood there. The anonymous partygoer took it out of his arms and put it on him, closing it, placing the mask on his face. At least his mouth remained free.

They pushed him forward. He nearly stumbled with the force of it.

He walked on. So many bodies to get past. Pushing against him. Talking. Laughing. Eating. Drinking out of silver goblets and crystal ones. that was the only thing he recognized about this place. The crystal glasses.

People were fooling around right out in the open. Kissing. Fondling. Somebody was fucking in the corner.

Such hedonism. Did they do this in the real 1820 England? These people, the actors here, were still in Regency character by the way they spoke, carried themselves, he could tell-- but now in costume they could do things they wouldn’t normally.

He wound his way through the throng, but not before being touched, caressed, molested by several.

He couldn’t tell what room he was in now. The parlor? Or maybe the entry hall. Perhaps it was the dining hall or the library. Each and every room looked precisely like the chamber he’d just left. Maybe if he kept wandering around he could find the kitchen. He didn’t see any servants hanging around, for that matter. Were they all in masks and fancy dress, too?

The music grew even louder, hypnotic. Didn’t know where the musicians were but he must be close to them.

Maybe that’s why Spock had been so upset, yesterday. He knew what would happen. What a masquerade ball would become.

Where was Spock, anyway?

In his haste, he’d forgotten to check the duke’s bedchamber, see if the Vulcan was there. Maybe he should go back upstairs--find Spock. They’ll hide, both of them. Get the hell out of here. Maybe it’s time to go back to the goddamned ship. All of them. Find the others, Jim, Chapel, Uhura, Scotty, Sulu.... They wouldn’t all be here mixed in with the throng, would they?

He’d managed to get himself turned around now, still didn’t know where he was. He crept along a hallway. He opened the first door he came to, went inside.

He heard noises-- gasping and moaning-- and that itself should have chased him out of there, but he walked in further.

He recognized one of them. Lord James was in costume but wearing no mask. The viscount had his arms circled around Ella the parlor maid. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, his bloomers pulled down, exposing his bare ass. He was pumping into her.

McCoy stepped back, out of the room.

He stumbled down the hall, then stopped to lean against the drapery.

He blinked and noticed a masked figure costumed entirely in black velvet, looking very ominous and shadowy, standing very close to him, right in his personal space.

He moved aside to let the man or creature go past him.

The figure stopped him, silently took hold of his hand. The figure lead him down the hallway, into another barely lit room with even more drapery.

The figure pushed him against the wall. The drapery covered them, surrounded them, shielding them from any onlookers.

The figure held onto his arms and suddenly their mouths had collided violently, a tongue slid deep in his mouth. He let it happen, let that anonymous mouth lick him, let that mouth take him. Let his mouth be fucked by another mouth.

The figure’s hands were roaming, touching, exploring.

The figure slid down his body, parting McCoy’s robe, unbuttoning his trousers. A hand dove in, pulling out his cock. Then that warm mouth was taking him in, sucking his cock.

McCoy leaned back against the wall, let the anonymous mouth pleasure him, deep throat him.

His own fingers roamed, touching the back of the figure’s head, the hair.

He caressed the ears. They were pointed.

Oh... it was Spock. He was--

He came, hard, spurting his seed deep into that hot mouth. He gasped, threw his head back, groaned, then fell forward.

He reached down, desperately trying to get into that black velvet robe to reciprocate. The figure pushed his hands away, then seemingly disappeared into thin air.

*

The next morning, McCoy walked into the kitchen.

Cook spun around and grinned. “Good morning! Good morning! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

“How are you feeling?” McCoy asked her. “How’s your hand?”

“Just fine! All better now. I didn’t see you all day yesterday or all evening. I was worried. Nobody knew what had happened to you,” Cook replied.

“It seems somebody wanted me out of the picture yesterday,” McCoy said. “They put a little something in my morning cup of tea.”

“Out of the picture? They...poisoned you?”

“No. Drugged. But they could have easily poisoned me if they’d wanted to.”

“My word!” Cook took his arm and said under her breath, eyeing one of the countess’ maids slinking by. “That woman!”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m glad to have you back,” Cook said. “I’ve set her servants to work, scouring and dealing with the chores nobody else wants.”

“Thank you.”

“It was a madhouse here last evening. I hid in the kitchen, the only sensible place.” She released him, turned, got Spock’s breakfast together. McCoy put the plates on the tray, donned his white gloves. “You were lucky to have missed it. Horrible. I’ll be glad to be rid of those Blessington folks entirely.”

“Somehow, I don’t think they’re going anywhere,” McCoy said.

*

McCoy was setting the breakfast tray in front of the duke, when he heard the front door bell. Fenton would tend to it.

He stepped out of the bedchamber to the hall, waiting. Moments later, Fenton came up the stairs, a letter clutched in his hands. He passed it over to McCoy.

McCoy brought the letter to Spock, the seal facing up. “For you, My Lord.”

“This is the Regent’s seal. He did not attend the ball last night nor did he respond to my invitation. I found his absence quite odd.”

“Maybe these are his regrets.”

“I would not have received them so late.” Spock opened the letter, read it. He let it fall from his fingers to the desk.

“What is it?” McCoy asked.

“I have to get to London.” Spock took his pen, dipped it into the ink, whispered the words as he wrote out the response. McCoy handed him the wax and the candle.

Spock pressed the ‘Duke of Cambridge’ seal into the circle of melted wax. He let it dry, then folded up the letter and handed it over to McCoy.

“Send this via the fastest messenger you can engage,” Spock commanded. “Get the London servants ready to travel. I wish to depart in an hour.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

 

**LONDON AGAIN**

 

The coach ride back to London was quiet. McCoy rode with the duke and countess, across from them, next to that damned Fenton. He didn’t want to be in this carriage, he’d rather be in the other one with the rest of the servants. He knew the countess didn’t want him there, but there had been no room in the other--and whether the lady liked it or not--he was the duke’s butler and he had the right to ride with the duke.

The countess droned on and on about various things, all of it annoying, their nuptials that were looming very soon, all the wedding plans she’d been making, her exquisite gown, the flowers, the food.

Spock, in his light blue day coat, silver waistcoat, yellow breeches and black top hat, would murmur a reply to her queries now and again, but mostly he fell silent.

Every once in while McCoy would look up from his hands and notice Spock watching him. He glanced away and concentrated on the passing scenery.

*

London seemed even more claustrophobic, crowded and dirty than before.

Finally reaching Grosvenor Square, the carriage stopped in front of the countess’ abode.

McCoy clambered out of the coach and held the door open.

Spock then stepped out and turned. “Margaret.” He held out his hand.

“Oh. I see.” The countess jumped out on her own, wouldn’t allow Spock to assist her. She glared daggers at McCoy then gathered up her butler and her maids and stormed off, away from the duke.

McCoy breathed a sigh of relief. They got back into the coach, he slammed the door shut and they were off, around the square.

After experiencing the grand style at Peerie Abbey, the London house seemed so quaint, so depressing, it being one quarter the size. It was similar to what he usually felt when he returned to the Enterprise after an extended shore leave in the country.

Damn, the Enterprise seemed a universe away, now. Almost as if the ship was a dream. This place was becoming more and more real.

Maybe he would retire here someday, not as a domestic servant, but as a nobleman or hell he’d take a landed gentry part as long as he could have a manor house in the country all his own. He was certainly no fan of all the computers and technology on a starship. This planet, on the other extreme, had been difficult to get used to, all the work that was expected from servants. However, now...it seemed perfect. He’d miss this planet, and--

“McCoy,” Spock said.

“Hmm?”

“We are home.”

McCoy looked around, the carriage had stopped. “Oh yeah.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired. Exciting couple of days.”

“Indeed. Peerie Abbey was quite...interesting.”

“It was fascinating,” McCoy corrected. He got out of the coach, stood by until the Vulcan disembarked, then shut the door. The servants coach directly behind was already emptied out people. The coachman sat waiting for the front one to move before carrying on to the mews.

They entered the house, Spock removed his own hat, then moved up the stairs to his bedchamber, McCoy at his heels. “Quickly, McCoy. I will change clothing. I must get to Westminster Abbey, post haste.”

“What’s going on?”

“King George III has died. Tonight is the funeral service.”

“The king?” McCoy paused while helping the duke out of his tail coat. “Wait a minute...what do you mean the king is dead?”

“His Majesty has ceased to live, he has died after his extended illness. Therefore there is a funeral service for the sovereign. The Regent’s father.”

“But I thought...I thought the Regent’s dad was back on Earth. I thought he wasn’t ill at all.”

Spock cleared his throat.

“Oh,” McCoy said. “Right. The...pretend...sovereign.”

“Very tragic. Quite a loss for England.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. “I’m so sorry to hear about the sovereign. Very unfortunate.”

“He was a well loved ruler of England, he shall be missed.”

“Yes. Wonderful man.”

“Hurry, McCoy. Formal dress this evening. It shall be a solemn occasion.”

“I can imagine,” McCoy said.

The next morning, Spock wasn’t very talkative when McCoy served him his breakfast, nor when he bathed and shaved him, or dressed him in his day-coat. Perhaps the duke was grieving the death of George III.

“Will we be expecting the countess today, My Lord?” McCoy asked.

“If I had been expecting the countess, would I not have indicated as such?” the duke snapped.

“Yes, of course, My Lord. I beg your pardon.”

*

The duke spent the rest of the day holed up in his bedchamber, not that McCoy had too much time to think about why. He utilized his time getting the London house back in order, which bizarrely had been emptied of food and drink. He helped the kitchen staff restock and settle into the London digs once again.

At precisely five o clock, his bell rang in the kitchen. He dried his hands on a dishtowel and sighed. “Probably wants a cup of tea.” He set the kettle on the stove and waited for it to boil. When it was ready, he donned his white gloves, took the tray and went upstairs.

The duke’s door was open. Spock, clad in only a linen shirt and his breeches, spun around when McCoy entered. “Where have you been?”

“My apologies.” McCoy held out the tray with the tea and biscuits.

“Ah. Thank you.”

McCoy set the tray on Spock’s desk, then bowed. “My Lord. Dinner will be served shortly.”

“I am not having dinner tonight at home.”

“Oh? I see. The countess is entertaining you this evening.” He scowled. Would have been nice if the duke would have been polite enough to have said something earlier. Dammit. All that rushing around for nothing.

“McCoy, the servants may dine on my dinner tonight.”

“Yes, My Lord. I’m sure they’ll enjoy that. What would you like to wear this evening?”

“Standard evening attire will suffice.”

McCoy nodded. He picked out black tails, gold waistcoat. “How about this?”

“You know better than I do,” Spock replied.

McCoy held out the buckled shoes.

“No, no, McCoy. Boots.”

Odd. The countess didn’t like him in boots. “Very good, My Lord.”

After he’d dressed the duke, he bowed and prepared to exit, when Spock stopped him. “McCoy. You are to accompany me tonight.”

McCoy closed his eyes. He’d rather be washing a months worth of dinner dishes, pots and pans and tackle the entire household’s dirty, stinky laundry singlehandedly than attend the duke on a visit to that damned countess. “Yes, My Lord,” he gritted out.

“However, I would like for you to accompany me tonight, not as my butler--”

What? McCoy opened his mouth to protest.

“--but as my friend.”

“Your friend? What do you mean? I’m your butler, unless you’re firing me.”

“I am not firing you. I would simply prefer the company of a friend tonight.”

“What about Lord James? He’s your friend.”

Spock sighed. “I request your presence, McCoy.”

“You mean, come along with you as a third wheel, chaperone you on your date with the countess? I don’t think the lady would appreciate my tagging along.” And he knew he sure wouldn’t enjoy it either, having to watch the two of them canoodle all evening.

“I am not entertaining the countess tonight.”

McCoy stopped. “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

“I have been invited to the opening night of ‘Coriolanus’ at the New Theatre. Would you like to accompany me as my guest? You would not be working, you would enjoy yourself.”

“Attend a play with you as your guest and not your butler?” McCoy said, tilting his head. “Are you allowed to do that, promote me to ‘friend’?”

“I am the Duke of Cambridge, I can do whatever I wish. Most of the time at least,” Spock said.

“Sure, fine. I’ll go.”

“Why, thank you,” Spock replied in that smart ass way of his. “You will need to adjust your attire to blend in.”

“All I have are butler uniforms.”

“I know.” Spock rested a hand on his wardrobe. “You and I are approximately the same size.”

“We are precisely the same size, My Lord. I should know.”

“Excellent. Make a selection from my clothing,” Spock commanded.

“I can’t do that, those are yours.”

Spock gave him a look that allowed no arguments.

McCoy chose a shirt, a pair of breeches, a black tailcoat and a red waistcoat. “What about this?”

*

Kyle’s driving seemed to be getting better. The short journey from MayFair to Soho and on to Shaftesbury Avenue proved relatively smooth.

McCoy adjusted the top hat on his head. The duke’s clothing fit him perfectly but still he felt uncomfortable. He glanced over at Spock sitting next to him in the carriage. “I haven’t seen ‘Coriolanus’ performed live before.”

“Nor have I. Now is our chance.”

*

The carriage stopped in front of a restaurant across the street from the New Theatre.

“I thought perhaps you might like to have dinner beforehand,” Spock said.

“Sure, that would be nice.” And even better, he didn’t have to serve it tonight.

Leslie opened the door, stood by. Spock clambered out first, waited for McCoy.

A couple of onlookers eyed Spock, apparently recognizing him. “Hey, it’s the Duke of Cambridge! That tosser!” They shouted. An egg hit Spock, splattering all over his coat.

“Hey!” McCoy shouted after them, then rushing after them, “get the hell out of here!” They backed up, but kept yelling out obscenities.

Spock grabbed onto McCoy’s arm to stop him. “Leave them be.”

“They threw an egg at you!” McCoy brushed at the splatters on Spock’s coat.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock said. “Come.” He led the way in.

“Why did they do that?” McCoy demanded.

Spock didn’t answer.

“Why are they yelling at you? Why are they shaking their fists?”

Spock still didn’t answer.

“Is it because of me? Because you’re out with your butler?” McCoy asked.

“No. That is definitely not the reason.”

“Then, why?”

“Never mind,” Spock hissed.

McCoy decided to drop it.

They were seated at a cosy table by the window by the jolly, welcoming proprietor. McCoy surmised their seating location was so the restaurant could advertise that the Duke of Cambridge was eating there, hence attracting more patrons. Every so often, a passerby would stop, point, murmur, then move along.

“Holy hell, you’re like a damned celebrity,” McCoy said, then glanced down at his menu. Everything was in French.

“Order whatever you like,” Spock said. “Do not worry about the cost.”

McCoy smiled. “I wasn’t. I’m having lobster and the most expensive wine they have. My French is a little rusty.”

“I will order for you, if you wish,” Spock said. The duke took a piece of bread out of the basket with his fork, buttered it with the tiny knife, then took a small bite. McCoy couldn’t help but watch. He knew that Vulcans didn’t like to touch their food with their hands. The folks of this era were pretty much the same so Spock fit right in.

And as Spock promised, when the waiter arrived, he ordered for McCoy in flawless French.

“Where’d you learn that?” McCoy said.

Spock shrugged.

They’d both adjusted their style of eating to the English or Continental style: Fork in the left hand, knife kept in the right, rather than the old 'American' eating style of setting the knife down and switching hands. Or perhaps Spock had always eaten in the Continental way. He'd never noticed before now.

The way Spock flirted with him throughout their entire meal, almost convinced him they were out on a date, but it was only his imagination. He’d just never been out with Spock on a completely social situation like this, during a shoreleave where there were no negotiations with planetary officials, no ship’s business. Instead they could just relax and enjoy it. And there was that small fact that Spock was essentially an actor playing a part which was affecting his true personality. That was all. And, the Duke of Cambridge was engaged to the Countess of Blessington and their wedding was in mere days.

McCoy swallowed his food, then a sip of his drink. “You’re going to be a married man soon.”

Spock shrugged at that and said nothing.

After desert, the proprietor brought the bill, a quill pen and inkwell. Spock signed the bill, handing it back. It would of course be sent to the duke’s home to pay later on.

The proprietor then handed the duke an autograph book. “S’il vous plait?”

“Bien sur,” Spock replied.

Spock dipped the pen again in the inkwell. He signed the man’s autograph book: ‘Spock, Duke of Cambridge’ with a flourish.

“Merci.” The man bowed, took the book away.

“This is going straight to your ego,” McCoy said to Spock.

*

They walked across the narrow road to the New theatre. There was a guard in lively posted at the main door. Upon seeing the duke and guest approach, the man moved aside, pointed the way in. “Welcome, My Lords.”

Spock removed his top hat, McCoy did the same. They stepped over to the hat check, handed them over, then walked on.

The foyer was crowded and buzzing with the upper classes. McCoy recognized some of them. They’d attended Spock’s engagement ball and most likely the masquerade ball. Some of those attendees noticed Spock. They turned away.

“Why are people suddenly shunning you?” McCoy asked.

Spock shrugged. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. Brandy.”

Spock maneuvered them both over to the bar, handed the brandy snifter to him. Spock had a brandy too. McCoy clinked his glass against the duke’s. “Cheers.”

Soon the ‘curtain up’ bell rang. ‘Coriolanus’ was starting in five minutes.

“Come, Leonard,” Spock said.

“Where are we sitting?”

“In the Royal Box, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.”

 

**THE PLAY**

 

After the director gave her opening night speech and thus began the opening lines of ‘Corialanus’, McCoy sat back and relaxed. Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the Royal Box’s butler. The man mimed: ‘would you like a drink, My Lord’? McCoy shook his head.

Then it seemed as if he was disturbed three more times before the interval.

The lights went up. Spock and McCoy applauded along with the rest of the house.

“That was an amazing first act,” McCoy said.

“Indeed.”

“Except these goddamned house servants kept pestering me, offering me drinks.”

“That is their job. But I can have a word with the butler so that he does not interrupt us again.”

“I’d be drunk right now, if it was up to that damned butler.”

“Perhaps that is intentional.”

McCoy laughed.

“I suppose you do not want another brandy now, then,” Spock said.

“Well, now that it’s the interval, I would like another drink.”

“I will call the butler,” Spock said, reaching for the bell.

“No, no, no. I want to get up, stretch my legs. Can we go down to the bar?”

“Certainly.”

They stood up and exited the box.

The butler had a questioning look on his face. “Everything alright, My Lords?”

“Everything is fine, thank you,” Spock told him.

“We have to visit the loo,” McCoy said.

“Ah, of course, My Lords.”

____________________  
on to next chapter


	10. Turkish Delight

**TURKISH DELIGHT**

 

Downstairs, in the foyer, Lord James approached them, a raven haired woman on his arm, she in blue velvet, the woman most decidedly not Lady Christine.

“Good Evening, Spock!” Lord James said. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“Likewise,” Spock replied.

“You remember uh....?” Lord James motioned at the woman.

“Madame Recamier, of course, I remember,” Spock replied. “How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you, My Lord,” she replied.

Lord James glanced over at McCoy. “I don’t seem to recognize your date, Spock. Lord...uh...somebody?”

“This is McCoy,” Spock said. McCoy gave the viscount the eye.

“Funny, I seem to recall you have a butler named McCoy. You wouldn’t be bringing your butler along to opening night would you? What would Lady Margaret have to say about that?” Lord James and Madame Racamier laughed.

Spock was silent a moment. “Have a pleasant evening,” he finally said.

“Likewise, Spock,” Lord James said.

Spock led McCoy over to the bar.

“What was that all about?” McCoy asked.

“Brandy?” Spock replied.

“Yes, please.”

Spock turned to the barman, then back around. He handed McCoy the brandy snifter. Spock was now holding a long narrow box along with another brandy for himself.

McCoy had never seen Spock drink this much, wondered a moment if all that booze was safe for Vulcans and decided the duke knew what he was doing. He took a sip. “Good lord, it’s delightful.”

“It should be, it cost fifty pounds a glass.”

McCoy choked. “Fifty pounds? A glass? This brandy?”

Spock nodded.

“That’s more than I earn in a--Jesus Christ,” McCoy breathed out.

“It is good, is it not?” Spock said with a smirk.

“What’s in the box?” McCoy asked.

“Turkish delight,” Spock said. McCoy shook his head. He bet that Vulcan was going to have to go on a diet when they returned to that far off entity known as the Enterprise, but until then...live a little.

They went back up to the Royal Box and sat down.

“Glamorous woman, that Madame Recamier,” McCoy said.

“Indeed. She lives in Belgrave Square, a district inhabited almost entirely by high priced courtesans.”

“Does the viscount know that? Wait a minute, how do YOU know that?”

Spock opened up the box of Turkish Delight. “Care for a piece?”

*

The lights darkened for act II and then III of ‘Coriolanus’.

McCoy reached over to the box of Turkish Delight on the duke’s lap. He accidentally brushed Spock’s pinky with his own and noted that the duke didn’t move his hand away.

*

The cast of ‘Coriolanus’ took their bows, then filed back behind the curtain to a standing ovation from the house.

“That was--” McCoy said. “Unbelievable.”

“It was,” Spock replied. “Would you like to go back stage and meet the cast?”

“Would I!” McCoy grinned.

“You have a crown, do you not?” Spock suddenly asked.

McCoy reached into his pocket, felt for his coins. “Yes. Why?”

“Tip the butler, if you please.”

“You don’t carry any money on you? What are you, the king?” McCoy huffed.

 

**BY ALL MEANS NECESSARY**

 

Returning home, they exited the carriage, Spock first then McCoy. Leslie closed the door, walking behind them.

The second footman opened the door. “Good evening, My Lord. Good evening, Sir.”

“Good evening,” Spock replied.

The duke went up the main staircase, McCoy following him.

Spock opened the door to his bedchamber. “Come in.”

McCoy entered. “Thank you for a lovely evening, My Lord. Now that it’s midnight, the coach has turned back into a pumpkin.” He removed the tailcoat, waistcoat and the cufflinks. He’d never be able to wear this stuff again. “If only they we had the technology available to take a photograph.”

“If only,” Spock replied, watching him.

“Well, since I’m off duty tonight, is it alright if I call the footman up to help you undress?”

“I am quite capable of disrobing myself,”

“You haven’t forgotten how? Excellent.”

Spock removed his own coat, tie cloth, cufflinks. He set them on his dresser, hung up his coat, then sat down on the four poster bed, removing his boots. His chest hair peeked out of his linen shirt.

“By God, you do know how to disrobe all on your own. You’ve officially put me out of a job,” McCoy said.

“Never,” Spock replied.

“Now that you’ve introduced me to the finer things in life, I won’t want to go back to domestic service.”

“Indeed?”

“Hmmm.” McCoy sat down on the bed next to Spock. “I won’t want to sleep in my own uncomfortable mockery of a too small mattress with the metal springs poking into me.” He flopped down onto his back. “Wish I could sleep here, instead.”

“You could, you know,” Spock said.

McCoy sat up. “Could what?”

“Sleep here. In my bed.”

“Then where will you sleep?”

Spock met his eyes. “With you.”

McCoy gulped, hesitated. Wouldn’t the countess find out and not be very happy at all about it, even if it was just two friends bunking up for one night?

Spock leaned over, removed McCoy’s spectacles, sliding them off his nose gently, then pulling the chain entirely from his neck and set them down on the bedside table.

“It’s tempting, My Lord. Very tempting.” McCoy dropped his voice down to a whisper, aware that the duke was sitting very close to him. He felt Spock’s fingers undoing his tie cloth, pulling it off. He closed his eyes. Then Spock was pulling his shirt out of his breeches, began to undo the buttons.

McCoy grabbed onto those warm fingers to stop him.

“Allow me,” Spock said.

McCoy dropped his hand, let Spock unbutton the shirt all the way, then take it off. The cold air hit his bare chest. His eyes were closed but he felt Spock’s warm, long fingers cupping the back of his head, pulling him into a kiss. Then it became passionate, just like the kiss at the masquerade ball. He opened his mouth, let Spock slide in his tongue. Spock’s hands caressed his bare chest and he circled his own around Spock’s trim waist, feeling the fabric of the duke’s breeches against his hands.

It hit him that they were going to fuck, right now, in this massive, four poster bed and he wanted so goddamned much for Spock to fuck him right now in this bed but--

He broke the kiss, managed to push Spock away, everything in him wanted to pull Spock in and kiss him again and again but he couldn’t do it. “Wait a minute. Wait just a damned minute.”

“What is it?” Spock’s voice was husky.

“The Countess of Blessington. You have a fiancee, remember? I’m not going to be a party to cheating on your fiancee.”

“The countess is not my fiancee.”

“What do you mean the countess is not your fiancee? The hell she isn’t. Your wedding is in a few days. In Cambridge!”

“No, it is not. I ended the engagement.”

“You did? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why?”

“The reason is not important, right now.”

“So, I’m a rebound thing? Something to play with to keep your mind off of her? You know, it isn’t done in polite society for a man to end an engagement of marriage. In fact it’s downright scandalous for a man to end an engagement. Is that why you were shunned at the theatre tonight? Is that why that egg was thrown at you? Is that why James was teasing you?”

“It was.” Spock resumed touching him, caressing his chest.

McCoy closed his eyes. “I know it’s common for you aristocrats to seduce your lowly servants.”

“Then what is the problem?” Spock said.

“I don’t want--I don’t want to be just a--” McCoy pushed those warm hands away. “I’m going to my own bed. Goodnight.”

He left the duke behind, walking to the adjoining door, opening and shutting it behind him. It slammed. Dammit, he hadn’t thought he’d closed it so hard. Whole house might have heard that.

He toed off his shoes, took off his breeches, threw it across the room. He felt his face for his spectacles. Missing. Where were they?

Goddammit, they were in there, with the duke. Well, fuck that, the duke can keep them permanently. It’s back onto Retinax again.

Standing there in his bloomers and stockings, he glanced down at his hard leaking cock. The organ was barely visible and tenting the slightly transparent linen fabric, leaving a wet spot.“Traitor,” he hissed.

He went into the watercloset, had a piss, which was difficult to do with a such goddamned stubborn fucking erection that wouldn’t go down. He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Looked away. He shook himself off, then grabbed onto the chain, flushed.

He washed his hands. Wet his face. Swallowed for the millionth time. Mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He drank a few gulps of water, setting the glass down on the nightstand with a soft thud.

His voice was a hoarse whisper but seemed so loud in the quiet. “But, I want to be seduced. I want to be a lowly servant, taken by the all powerful Duke of Cambridge.” Goddamn it-- it wasn’t possible for him to be even more turned on, more erect, than he was now.

It was only a bit of fun, wasn’t it? Some pretending. Acting. That’s all.

The sex would be real, but the circumstances, the seduction would be--

He would be crazy to turn it down. Hadn’t had sex in God knows how long. Here the duke was offering it up on a silver platter and he was the idiot, chicken shit, turning it down. Think there’d ever be a chance in hell with a real relationship with Spock? Forget it.

Spock was playing a passionate, very human character, much different to his real controlled, alien, logical, often cold demeanor. Never in a million years would something like this ever happen again, sex with Spock, so why turn down a good fuck? With Spock? Don’t let illogical feelings and silly crushes that he’d had for years get in the way.

Take what the Vulcan was willing to offer. It’s just sex. In Regency character. The duke seducing the butler. That’s all it was.

Obviously they were both into roleplaying. They had that much in common, liking to pretend in the sack.

“No,” McCoy hissed again to himself. “I can’t do this.”

He knelt down, pulled out his suitcase from under neath his bed. He opened it, and dug out his medi-kit. He found the hypo for his retinax 5. He held out his hand. He hovered the hypo, ready to plunge the prescription his wrist.

But instead of delivering the Retinax dose, he simply threw the hypo back into the suitcase.

He donned his blue brocade robe. He didn’t tie it, leaving it to hang open.

He walked to the adjoining door, opened it without knocking and went in.

The duke was laying in bed, the duvet pulled down to his stomach, but he wasn’t in his nightgown. His chest was bare. It was obvious the duke been waiting for McCoy’s return.

“Begging your pardon for the intrusion, My Lord. I forgot...my spectacles.”

“They are right where you left them.”

McCoy went over to the nightstand, picked them up but didn’t put them on. He crossed the room but halted in front of Spock’s desk.

“My Lord?” McCoy swallowed again.

“Yes?”

McCoy feet moved, almost of their own accord. He walked back over to the four poster bed. He eyed the mahogany wood, the elaborate leaf design carved into it, the duvet, the blue bedsheets. The form of the duke in the center of it. His gaze ran along Spock’s body, studied that bare chest with the dark hair on the pectorals, a thin line of hair down the duke’s belly, then back up at his chest. One could barely see those green tinted nipples under that hair.

Then finally, he dared look into Spock’s eyes.

“Your wish is my command, My Lord,” McCoy said. “I am your humble servant. I give myself to you. I am yours to do with as you will.”

“I am most gratified to hear that.” Spock’s own gaze trailed down to McCoy’s chest, down to his bloomers, the tent in the crotch, then his stocking feet and then back up. “Thank you for informing me of your loyalty to your position.”

McCoy’s breaths hitched under that intense gaze. “Yes. Well uh....” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want anything to come between myself and my position in your household. I’m willing to protect it in any way I can. Just thought I should let you know.”

“Thank you, McCoy.”

“You are most welcome, My Lord. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Spock replied.

“Sleep well, My Lord.”

“Likewise, McCoy.”

McCoy bowed.

“Come here, McCoy,” the duke commanded.

“Yes, My Lord.” McCoy went to him, stood in front of the massive bed.

The duke got out of bed. He took McCoy’s spectacles away, set them back on the nightstand. He rested both hands on McCoy’s shoulders, pushing him down to kneel. “Talk is cheap, McCoy. You’re going to have to show me how much you want to remain in my household.”

“Yes, My Lord. By all means necessary.”

“Pull down my underpants, McCoy.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

He did so and revealed that hard green-tinged cock. Goddamn, it was huge. Long and thick.

McCoy took it into his mouth, looking up at the duke, who was staring down at him. Waiting.

He got to work, ran his tongue along Spock’s cock, licking the glans, doing the best he could with it, until the duke pushed him off. He sank onto the cold wooden floor.

Spock grabbed under his arms, pulling him up to stand, then picked him up and carried him over to that four poster bed. The duke tore off his robe and bloomers, then the duke removed his own bloomers.

They were both down to their stockings and they kept them on.

*

He was clutching the headboard so hard it was creaking, his fingers were sinking into the wood, as the duke fucked into his ass.

At least they were using contemporary lube. No oils or Vaseline or grease or whatever the hell people back then utilized for anal sex. Spock had held up the tube for approval and he’d nodded, but it really wasn’t up to him. He wasn’t in control, the duke was. He just wanted the duke to hurry up and slick that girthy organ up and shove it in, take him now, he was so fucking turned on.

But the duke wanted to tease him, wanted to draw things out a bit, wanted to make him cry out in ecstasy and whimper and beg before attempting any form of penetration. Licking him, sucking on his nipples, slurping on his balls, running that hot green tongue along his entire body, mapping it out, tasting him. Then claiming his mouth again and again, swallowing his cries before spinning him around and pushing him to all fours, sliding a finger in, getting him ready then holding that cock to McCoy’s entrance and pushing in. The duke wouldn’t let McCoy touch him back, wouldn’t let him reciprocate anything. The duke expected him to be passive and he was happy to oblige.

The duke’s balls slapped against his ass. He gasped out. “Oh, my Lord, oh....” oh fuck he was going to come all over this bed, and he did squirting a ribbon of come out on that headboard, but the duke was far from close to joining him and kept up thrusting and fucking some more, harder still, before finally climaxing, that dick throbbing and pumping that warm seed into him.

*

Then the duke woke him up again for it, this time pushing him on his back, his legs resting on Spock’s shoulders. Spock slid himself into his rectum. Began immediately thrusting into him, fucking him hard. Not letting up until coming again inside him.

*

Then the duke took him again.

*

The duke woke him up yet again for more.

*

Goddamn it, the duke wanted it, again! How many times had they fucked? Had to be about 3am now. Holy--

Spock’s cock shoved into him.

“Ohhh,” McCoy breathed out.

*

He blinked awake, noting the multicolored rays of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. The duke’s arms were wrapped tightly around his waist. That warm body pressed up against him. Felt like Spock was hard again. Mmph.

The fire was out in the fireplace. Seemed like late morning already.

McCoy grunted as he shifted, or at least tried to, Spock wouldn’t let go and his ass hurt like the dickens and though he wished he could stay like this, cocooned with the duke in his bed forever, but he needed to get out of here before--

The door opened.

In came Williams the footman, bearing a tray. “Good morning, My Lord.” The young man didn’t react at all to seeing the duke’s arms clamped around the butler’s naked waist in bed. “Where would you like your tea, My Lord?”

“Here.” Spock pointed, finally letting go of McCoy.

The footman placed the tray on the nightstand. He bowed then exited.

“Well,” McCoy said. “Now the entire household knows what’s been going on.”

“They already know. There is tea for two on that tray.”

McCoy let his hand idly fall onto Spock’s chest, fingers caressing his lover’s thick body hair. “Good morning.”

Without preamble, Spock pushed McCoy out of bed. McCoy couldn’t recover from that and landed on the cold wooden floor with a thump and a grunt.

The duke slid out of bed, walked nude to his bathroom and shut the door.

Well, that was humiliating. McCoy gathered up the remaining shreds of his pride and stood up. He limped nude, in stocking feet, over to his own room.

He dug out a hypo to counteract some of dull ache in his rectum.

The duke could forget or at least pretend to, but McCoy’s entire body wouldn’t let him forget what they’d been doing all night, at least not today.

He yawned into his fist. He went to the his bathroom, took a long, hot relaxing bath. He shaved. Got dressed. He ignored the silence from the rest of the house servants, gratefully accepted a cup of strong coffee from Cook, then carried on with the rest of his day.

_______________________  
on to next chapter


	11. Chartreuse

**CHARTREUSE**

 

McCoy wasn’t expecting to be treated with such scorn by the duke. It appeared Lord Spock had regretted seducing the butler. McCoy considered himself lucky he still had a job in the duke’s household.

However, he hadn’t bargained for losing his position as the duke’s personal valet, discovering one morning that Jones, the Cambridge valet had arrived in London to dress Spock from now on. McCoy also took himself out of bringing the duke’s tea and breakfast up in the mornings, giving that task back to the footmen. No matter. There were plenty of other duties to take up his time. And those didn’t expose him to the duke’s cold glare and hostile demeanor.

*

There was an unexpected visit one afternoon from the viscount.

McCoy opened the front door. The viscount was holding today’s newspaper. “Look. The duke’s on the front page. Right there. Look at his picture.”

McCoy took it from the man, read out: “Duke of Cambridge slated to reconcile with Countess of Blessington!” He scowled, handed the paper back to the viscount.

“Chartreuse,” Lord James suddenly said. “Bones.”

“What seems to be the problem, Jim?” McCoy asked.

“Ah. Let’s go up to your quarters and talk.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow but led the captain up the main staircase, to his room. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

Jim threw the newspaper on McCoy’s bed. “Bones. I uh...need a little something.” He motioned. “You know.”

“No, I don’t know. You’re gonna have to elucidate, Jim.”

“I’m pissing razor blades, Bones.”

McCoy stared a moment. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Wish I was.”

McCoy shook his head, grumbling. He picked up his type II scanner and ran it along the captain’s body. “Good old fashioned case of gonorrhea. Nice job, Jim.”

“Yeah. Figured that’s what it was.”

“You’re lucky that’s all it is. Something I can easily and quickly treat.”

“Yeah.”

McCoy got the hypo ready, slammed it into the man’s arm.

“Ow!”

“You deserve it. You know they have such a thing as condoms in this day and age! Use one!”

Jim rubbed his arm.

“Alright, Jim, tell me. Honestly. Who else? I need to treat everybody you’ve come into recent sexual contact with.”

Jim told him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jim. Just had to go out on the prowl, didn’t you!”

“I think I might have caught it from the Madame.”

“You haven’t slept with Christine, though, right? Please tell me you haven’t!”

“Oh no. She’s safe.”

McCoy exhaled. “It’s just half of London that’s exposed, right?”

“And Cambridge.”

McCoy groaned at that.

“You might want to treat Spock, too,” Kirk said.

McCoy’s heart skipped a beat. “Why’s that? Did you sleep with him?”

“No. But I fucked your maid at the masquerade ball and I heard tell that he uh...fucked one of the servants the other night.”

“Oh really? Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really think Spock would do a thing like that?”

Jim shrugged. “He also visited Madame Recamier, with me.”

McCoy let his hand fall. His mouth went dry. “He slept with her too?”

“Well, he did only visit her parlor, I think. I mean, I didn’t actually witness anything sexual, but I assume--Where is the duke, by the way?”

“The library. Reading. Anyway, Jim, come on. I’ve got to go do some doctor stuff. You’re coming with me to Madame Recamier’s.”

*

It was coronation day for the Prince Regent. The duke was in an even testier mood, if that was possible.

McCoy went up to his own room and sat down to pen a resignation letter.

He spotted another letter sitting on his desk bearing his name and the duke’s seal.

That was it, wasn’t it. He was being fired. The duke had had enough of him. That’s what that delicately scribed letter was all about.

He didn’t open that letter. Instead he crumpled it up into a little ball then set fire to it with the candle.

He didn’t need to read it. He knew what it would say. He couldn’t bear the humiliation again.

Fine. If that’s how it was, he’d leave on his own. Beam up early. Probably some things to take care of aboard ship before everybody returned from shoreleave anyway.

He dashed off a letter to the king, thanking the man for his hospitality. He would leave the Regency clothing here, change into his starfleet uniform right after the duke left in an hour to attend the ceremony at Westminster Abbey.

He was setting his suitcase on his bed when he heard his bell ring. Dammit. It was the duke. Summoning him. He got up from his desk, went to the adjoining door, opened it, stuck his head through, but didn’t enter. “Yes, My Lord?”

“You will attend me at the coronation. Be ready to leave the house, shortly.”

McCoy glanced past the duke and noted Jones the valet in the bedchamber with him.

“Yes, My Lord.”

 

**GOD SAVE THE PRINCE OF WALES**

 

McCoy stood by the carriage door, waiting for the duke-- who was dressed in his tuxedo with boots, sash, medal and badges.--to board. He himself was attired in the most formal version of his butler uniform: Black breeches, single breasted coat, white waistcoat, white tie-cloth.

The duke handed his top hat to McCoy. McCoy leaned in to the carriage. “I’ll ride with the coachman, if you please, My Lord.”

“Nonsense. You will ride with me. Get in,” Spock snapped.

“Yes, My Lord.” McCoy got in, shut the door, sat down. They did not speak a word the entire journey to Westminster Abbey.

Upon arrival, McCoy jumped out of the coach, held the door open for the duke. “My Lord.”

Spock stepped out. He walked a few steps, then turned. “Come along.”

“Where, My Lord?” McCoy asked.

“Inside the abbey. Come on.”

“You mean...I am also attending the coronation?”

“Come, McCoy.” Spock shook his head, rolled his eyes, muttered something else McCoy didn’t catch.

How rude. He wanted to beg off, to stay with the carriage with Kyle, play some cards, drink some more brandy.

“What is the hold up, McCoy?” Spock said.

“Nothing, My Lord.” He followed the duke to the abbey’s front entrance, walking two steps behind the nobleman as always.

*

Prince George the Prince Regent was crowned King George IV, King of England. Or King of Regus IV if you wanted to get technical.

McCoy sat next to Spock-- who had visited the robing room and donned his own coronet and the ermine robes of a duke-- observing the solemn ceremony. The King wore the crown of the sovereign, holding the royal ceptre. Spock being the duke of Cambridge was closest to the stage.

McCoy scanned the crowd gathered at Westminster Abbey. He glanced over and noticed the Countess of Blessington. She glared at him. He turned back around.

Suddenly, the king piped up: “I now declare my successor who henceforth will be known as the Prince of Wales.” He paused. “My successor shall be: Spock, the Duke of Cambridge. All hail, His Royal Highness, Spock, The Prince of Wales!”

There was mumbling, grumbling, whistling, hisses of anger. Somebody, some older aristocrat, sitting behind Spock, said: “He’s the one who broke his engagement to the countess. Totally unsuitable for such a grand appointment.” Somebody else, grumbled out: “Scandalous.” McCoy heard the countess begin to weep and wail: “I could have been Princess of Wales!” Someone patted her on the shoulder.

Spock sat ramrod straight in his chair, opened his mouth a moment, closed it. He glanced over at McCoy.

McCoy moved from his own chair to get down on one knee at Spock’s feet. “Your Highness,” he said. “It is an honor to serve you.”

Spock nodded, seemed comforted by that. He stood up and joined the king on the stage. The coronet and robes of the duke were replaced by those of the Prince of Wales.

McCoy sat back in his seat and watched.

Spock turned to faced the crowd. There was silence.

McCoy got to his feet. “God save the King! God save the Prince of Wales!” He applauded loudly.

Soon he was joined by others shouting the same and on their feet applauding.

*

After the reception to congratulate King George and the selection of the Prince of Wales, Prince Spock indicated to McCoy that he wished to leave. McCoy nodded. His Royal Highness walked off to return the coronet and robe back to the robing room. When the prince rejoined McCoy, he was wearing yet another royal badge.

“Your Highness,” McCoy said. “Your carriage awaits you. Anywhere you wish to go?” McCoy asked.

“Home,” Spock said, in an almost tired tone of voice that was quite unlike him.

McCoy nodded and took the prince back to Grosvenor Square.

When they entered the house and he took Spock’s top hat, then bowed to the prince. “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

There was something inscrutable in those dark eyes. “Goodnight, McCoy.”

After the prince disappeared, McCoy went up the stairs to his own room. He took the suitcase off his bed, shoved it back underneath. Strange, the prince hadn’t mentioned anything all evening about wanting to fire him. So what had that letter been all about? Well, he couldn’t read it now, anyway, even if he wanted to.

He removed his tail coat, tie-cloth, formal breeches, toed off his buckle shoes. He was about to remove his waistcoat and linen shirt when his bell rang. Dammit.

He went to the adjoining door and opened it. “Yes, My Lord--I mean--Yes, Your Highness?”

Spock was still fully dressed, though his sash, medal and badges were gone. Where the hell was the valet?

“McCoy, put something on. I wish to go out.”

“Out where, Your Highness?”

“Just get dressed and follow me.”

McCoy nodded and did as ordered.

*

It was midnight, when McCoy joined the prince in the entry hall of the house.

“I’ll ring for the coachman, Your Highness,” McCoy said.

Spock touched his arm, shook his head. “I wish to have a walk in the gardens.”

McCoy shrugged, followed the prince out of the front door. They walked to the gate, McCoy opened it. Spock strode in.

That proved to be a bad move, because Grosvenor Square Gardens was positively alive with people even at this hour-- all of them Grosvenor Square residents-- out celebrating the coronation.

A crowd spotted Spock. “It’s the Prince of Wales!”

They suddenly gathered around the prince, all asking for autographs, congratulating him, wanting conversation, his attention until McCoy grabbed Spock’s arm and told them all: “Alright, alright, alright, thank you very much, indeed. His Royal Highness is positively exhausted and must return home. Thank you.”

Spock and McCoy walked--or rather, fled-- through the gardens back to the house.

“Well,” Spock said. “That stroll did not turn out as expected.”

“Get used to being mobbed, Your Highness, you’re second in line to the throne. And an eligible bachelor to boot.” They exited the gate, walked across the lane to the front door. McCoy was about to open it.

“Perhaps we can take the small buggy out,” Spock suggested. “Just you and I. Without my coachmen. Therefore I may escape much notice from passers by. You do know how to drive a team of horses, do you not?”

“Of course I do, Your Highness.”

Together they went around the house to the mews. McCoy hooked up two white horses to the small black buggy. The prince got in. McCoy took hold of the reins. “Where to?” he asked.

“Hyde Park. The Serpentine.”

 

**THE LETTER**

 

The Serpentine wasn’t too far away, just a few minutes drive. The roads were deserted at this hour. McCoy pulled the horses into the carriage way closest to the Serpentine. When they neared it--the moon shining on the lake--Spock called out: “Halt.”

McCoy stopped the horses.

They remained there, protected from view just as Spock had mentioned--both of them looking at the Serpentine for many moments.

Then Spock suddenly asked: “Did you read my letter?”

McCoy’s heart sank. “No, Your Highness, but...don’t worry, I’ll leave the household at dawn.”

“You did not read my letter?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

McCoy shook his head. He couldn’t bear to. “I accidentally...uh...burned it before I could read it.”

“Indeed? How unfortunate.”

“Mmm.”

McCoy fell silent again. He looked over and noticed a green cut on Spock’s cheek. Then a few more of them. Another on the chin. Unmistakably an injury from shaving. “Doesn’t look like your valet is doing a very good job.”

“Pardon?”

“Shaving you.” McCoy couldn’t help but reach over and touch the Vulcan’s face. “You’re full of cuts.”

“I have not quite gotten the hang of a straight razor.”

“You mean...you’re shaving yourself?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I did not want Jones to do it.”

“Oh,” McCoy said. He looked away. “Well, I didn’t mind shaving you. Not at all. I don’t know why you put a stop to it.”

“If your would have read my letter you would have known why.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t read it.”

Spock sighed and said: “Chartreuse.”

The safe word. McCoy dropped character and turned to the Vulcan. “What is it, Spock?”

“Leonard, I would like to apologize for my appalling behavior. How I treated you the morning after we--”

“Hey. Don’t worry about it.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“It’s alright, Spock. I know it was just sex. I know it was all a game, roleplaying, some fun. You wanted to seduce your servant, I let you. I enjoyed it. I’m not upset about it. I’m not looking for anything more from you.”

“You are not?”

“No. Of course not. Once we go back to the ship, it will all be forgotten. Business as usual between us, right? It will be as if it happened in a dream. Not real.”

“Your behavior in bed. Your emotions. They were all pretend?”

“Sure. Pretend. That’s all it was. I really don’t want anything more than what it was.”

“Really. I could have sworn, when I touched you intimately and especially when I was inside you-- and you remember, I am a touch telepath-- that you were in love with me.”

“Well, your touch telepathy was wrong. I am not. Don’t worry about that.”

“It is never wrong.”

“It is mistaken! Your goddamned Vulcan hocus pocus can’t always be foolproof!” McCoy found himself snapping. He folded his arms and looked away. “I’m not in love with you. And what do you care how I feel, anyway? You and your goddamned bed hopping, fucking every attractive--”

“You are the only person I have had sexual intercourse with on this planet.”

“Bullshit. What about the countess? What about the the masquerade ball? That glorified orgy? Madame Recamier?”

Spock scoffed. “Please, Leonard. It’s only been you. I knew it was you that I had an encounter with at the ball. I knew it was you, all along.”

“You didn’t know it was me. I was in a costume, masked.”

“I know what you feel like, the touch of your hands, your thought patterns. And...I have never had sex with the Countess of Blessington or Madame Recamier.”

“You kissed the countess.”

“That was unavoidable.”

McCoy huffed. “I hated watching it, anyway. Even if it was pretend.”

“Admit that you are in love with me.”

“No.”

“Admit it.”

“You’re the Prince of Wales. You could take me to the Tower of London right now, put me on the rack, torture me and I’d still never admit it. Ever.”

“You wish to be tortured?”

“Yes. Do it. I dare you.”

“You love me.”

“The hell I do.”

“Admit it.”

“No. And you can’t make me.”

Spock grabbed the back of his head, pulled him into a kiss. When they parted Spock said: “I was correct.”

McCoy scowled. “I could pretty much broadcast any strong emotion while you kiss me and you’d pick it up.”

“Alright. Let us test your theory.” Spock leaned in, kissed him again. “Hmm, yes. Now you are feeling anger.”

“See?!”

“But underneath that mock anger--you are in love with me.”

McCoy snorted and folded his arms again. “The hell I am.”

“What a coincidence. I am also in love with you,” Spock stated.

“No, you’re not. You kicked me out of bed. Right onto the goddamned floor. The nerve of you. I’ve never had anybody do that.”

“I apologize for doing so. I was in-- Leonard, you should have read my letter. Detailing my...desires.”

“What, that you wanted to fire me? No, thanks. I balled it up and burned it, deliberately, unread. I couldn’t--I couldn’t bear to read that you didn’t want me in your household anymore.”

“Oh, Leonard, you are a feisty one. That letter said that I want to have a relationship with you. I would of course, ask the king to grant you a title, so that I would not be involved with my staff.”

“Oh. Well. We’ve only got one more day left down here. It’ll be a short relationship.”

“I wish to carry it over to the ship. I want the relationship to be for real. In fact, I ask you to marry me, tomorrow, on this planet, then be with me as my spouse.”

“You’re not proposing are you?”

Spock nodded.

“No, you’re not,” McCoy said.

Spock sighed in audible frustration.

“You were supposed to marry the countess tomorrow,” McCoy said. “Remember?”

“I prefer it to be you, instead.”

“Why’d you end your engagement?”

“I had discovered that countess had drugged you the morning of the masquerade ball. Cook had informed me of such. That was the encouragement I needed to let the countess go.”

“Was that wedding going to be real?”

“No. She was merely acting. As was I.”

“But our wedding would be--”

“Real. If you want me, that is,” Spock said.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, you’ve been embracing your human side as as the Duke of Cambridge on this planet. I mean when everything goes back to normal aboard ship...I might not like being married to a computer.”

“‘Embracing my human side’ indeed. How xenophobic. Vulcans have emotions.”

“Well you sure don’t show them.”

“We keep them in check in public. In private, we are quite passionate.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

“You might not be able to keep up with me. I have a high sex drive, Spock.”

“So do I.”

“Not as high as mine,” McCoy said.

“Try me.”

“I like it, twice a day. Morning and night. Every day. Maybe even three times a day. I want to be fucked hard, in the shower, on the bed, on the floor, in the tub, every room in the house.”

“You will not be able to walk once I am finished with you. What we did before was just the tip of the iceberg. McCoy.”

That threat went straight to McCoy’s dick.

“Ah, you are erect. Excellent,” Spock said, glancing at McCoy’s crotch. He pulled McCoy out of his breeches, put him into his warm mouth.

“Oh....” McCoy leaned back in the buggy, hands still holding the horses’ reins. He moaned out: “Oh...fuck. Oh yeah...like that...”

There was another buggy that went by, they paused until it passed. Then Spock carried on. McCoy soon came down that throat.

“So this,” he panted out. “Is parading in Hyde Park.”

“Mmm. I cannot believe that you burned my letter, Leonard."

McCoy chuckled ruefully. "I'm sorry. I really am. Will you write me another?"

"Of course."

 

**THE ROYAL WEDDING**

 

His Royal Highness, Spock, The Prince of Wales, The Duke of Cambridge married Leonard McCoy, The Duke of Gloucester, at eleven AM the next morning at Westminster Abbey.

The lavish wedding was organized in haste, but still absolutely stunning. All of the realm, including the sovereign, attended the ceremony and reception. Even the Countess of Blessington, who complained about a distinctive lack of satin.

*

Afterwards, there was another reception held at Buckingham House. This time, a going away party for the Enterprise crew. Everyone was out of character. Cook said her goodbyes to McCoy and Spock.

Margaret, the countess came and congratulated the happy couple, apologizing profusely to McCoy. “It was all acting, Darling! You know how it is!”

McCoy laughed. All was forgiven. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

_______________

on to next chapter


	12. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 

Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, Scotty, Mr. Chekov and Lieutenant Uhura were the first group to beam back to the ship.

Once again in their Starfleet uniforms, which felt and looked strange after wearing all that clothing for a fortnight, they smiled and laughed as they walked out of the transporter room and down the corridor.

“That was something, wasn’t it?” Kirk said. “Lots of excitement.”

“That’s for sure,” Uhura said, winking at Scotty.

“Regus IV is now the newest member of the federation, I’m happy to say,” Kirk said. “The vote was unanimous.”

“I’m sure gonna miss Regus IV.” McCoy glanced down at the wedding ring on his left hand. “It was kinda magical. I hope we can go there again, someday.” He looked over at Spock.

Kirk, Spock and McCoy entered Turbolift A. “Deck five,” Kirk told the computer.

“I do believe that we shall return, sooner than later,” Spock said. “George IV has gifted the doctor and me ‘Peerie Abbey’. We are all most welcome to return to Regus IV any time we wish.”

“Really? We can keep ‘Peerie Abbey’?” McCoy said.

Spock smirked at him. “Indeed.”

“Playing the same roles?” Kirk asked. “Or better ones?”

“The same.”

The lift stopped at deck 5. They exited and stopped in front of the first officer’s door.

“Hey, Spock,” Kirk said. “We still have some time to relax, how about a game of chess after we settle in?”

“Thank you, Captain, but I must decline your invitation.” Spock held up a journal. “I have...a great deal of notes to share with the doctor. We are writing a joint paper on our recent experiences.”

“Oh, right, carry on.”

“Yes,” McCoy said. “Lots of notes. I have several, too.” He held up his own journal. “Should take us several days for my husband and I to correlate everything. You know how it is.”

Kirk narrowed his eyes. “I see. Well. Have fun, Gentlemen.”

McCoy shook his head. “Spock’s a prince, I’m his prince consort. We’re royals, not gentry.”

Kirk rolled his eyes, then muttered as he walked off in the other direction.

Spock watched the captain leave. “Oddly enough, Leonard, I do not believe the captain was convinced of our performance just now.”

“Hmmm?” McCoy said. “You mean he knows you’re gonna fuck my brains out as soon as we enter your quarters?”

“I believe he suspects as much. He would be correct, however.”

Spock picked up McCoy in his arms and carried him through the threshold.

___________

the end.


End file.
